birdsofshore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
birdsofshore) wrote2016-06-05 09:05 pm
birdsofshore) wrote2016-06-05 09:05 pm
Fic for gracerene: Rapture (Draco/Albus Severus/Scorpius, ~15k, NC-17) Part 1 of 2
Title: Rapture
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
birdsofshore
Pairing: Draco / Albus Severus / Scorpius
Word count: ~15k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: ahaha *nervous laugh*. Threesomes, jealousy, pining, powerplay, orgasm denial, Malfoys being Malfoys, Draco being an utter dick, blow jobs, wanking, smutty smut, kind of incesty. Really kind of incesty.
Summary: Al is turning twenty, and Scorpius is determined to give him a birthday that they’ll all remember. Sequel to Euphoria.
A/N: Well, this is sort of complicated. This is a late birthday present forgracerene. So sorry, grace, I started writing this absolutely ages ago, intending to give it to you for your birthday. Unfortunately life and other writing commitments got in the way. *hangs head* Anyway, here I am posting it on Draco’s birthday. So it’s a present for our beloved Mr Malfoy, as well. But the story itself is about Albus’ birthday. Confused yet?
Thank you,gracerene, for being such a lovely part of fandom - you’re a super writer, commenter, reader, mod, and fandom cheerleader. I don’t know how you manage it all! ♥ Please forgive the lateness of this gift. I loved revisiting these three kinky bastards and very much hope that you enjoy what they get up to here.
A massive thank you tolq_traintracks and who_la_hoop for betaing this for me.
Scorpius,
Are you guys free for me to visit you next Sunday? No offence to my family, but I'm thinking a break from them might be nice after this big birthday bash on the Saturday.
Al
“Well, you've grown so much these last couple of years, Albus dear.” Grandma fusses about, pulling at it and trying to smooth the lilac wool over my chest. “But doesn't that colour set off his eyes beautifully? Look, Ginny. Look at him!” She reaches up to pinch my cheek. “Your little boy, all grown up.”
James smirks, and when no-one's listening, tells me I look like a total poof.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I tell him, and then roll my eyes when he looks confused. He never gets anything to do with Muggle stuff.
Dad cooks his famous curry and Grandma has baked a giant cake, covered with buttercream icing and a big number twenty that's charmed to glitter and give out sparks until it's cut. It tastes a bit sickly, but I manage two large slices, and she beams.
Don't get me wrong, I love being with them all, but part of me keeps thinking about tomorrow. I wonder if Draco will be there – I know what Scorp said, but sometimes, when I go over, Draco's not around, even if we've planned it and Scorp's promised he will be.
It's not like I don't enjoy it when it's just me and Scorp. He's brilliant. So funny, and cool, and, man, he's fit and gorgeous as well. And it's more than that. A lot more. Sometimes, I don't know. He makes me feel so fucking special.
But the times when Draco's there as well... I'm shivering, right now, just thinking about it. Good shivers, right through me, making me shift in my seat, here at the dinner table, with the wreck of Grandma's cake in front of me and Uncle Ron and Uncle George pretending to Jinx each other over who's going to do the washing up. Draco's like... something addictive. Something that might be bad for you, but it makes you feel too fucking good to care.
Scorp's like a long flight on a new broom in the sunshine. It feels fast and free and you're exhilarated and pink in the face and it's just so good. Afterwards you know your muscles will ache a bit, but in a healthy way, and you'll lie there all relaxed and peaceful and feeling pretty great about yourself.
Draco's like a gloved hand in the dark, wrapping itself around your throat. Your heart hammers in your chest and it's too much, you feel a little bit twisted up and scared and you can't quite believe it's happening... but you love it. You don't really know what you're doing, you wonder what the actual fuck you're doing, but it feels too good to stop: too fast, too risky, too incredible. Afterwards, you look in the mirror and wonder if other people can see it in your eyes, what you've done. What you are.
It's been nearly three weeks since I've seen him – properly seen him – and I'm starting to feel jittery, just thinking about it and how much I need it.
~*~
There are few things more tedious, or less avoidable, than entertaining one's business associates.
Lady Hallwood must have been here a dozen times over the last five years and she never fails to look surprised when I explain that Mrs Malfoy will not be joining us for luncheon because Mrs Malfoy, now Signora De Fiore, lives in a chateau in Italy with her second husband. A chateau that I personally paid for as part of our divorce settlement. And a large part of the reason why I have to entertain boring bloody people like this for lunch all the time is to ensure that I can continue to pay for the upkeep of that bloody expensive pile of bricks.
I take a deep breath. “How's your sherry, Lord Hallwood?”
“Oh, it's quite all right, Malfoy. I do like a good drop of sherry.”
I don't know where the children have got to. Albus appeared at about eleven this morning, all rosy cheeks and rumpled robes as he tumbled out of the Floo, but he and Scorpius vanished upstairs and haven't been heard of since, except for the odd muffled burst of laughter.
I can't deny I'm looking forward to – how did Scorpius put it? Celebrating with Albus, later on. It's been a very wearing couple of weeks, and I've not had any time for relaxation. I make a mental note to make more time for the two boys. It's important for Scorpius to spend time with his father. An image flashes into my mind of Albus as I had him last. Laid out naked across my bed, his hair sticking to his face with sweat and the nearest wall spelled to a mirror shine so I could watch myself fucking into him with long, merciless strokes.
I could see Scorpius reflected there too, a shadowy, quiet shape sitting in his accustomed spot in the corner. He always sits quite still, as if afraid that movement will break the spell. Still, but for the intent movement of his hand, that is.
The dinner bell rings, and I realise I have been utterly inattentive to my guests' interminable tale about their last Portkey to Greece. Hopefully they're fond enough of the sound of their own voices not to have noticed. I smile and gesture towards the door. “Won't you join me in the dining room?”
A smug look of satisfaction creases Lord Hallwood's plump face. “Excellent. We can always be sure of getting something good here, Malfoy.”
“Our house-elves have been in the family for generations, naturally.”
What is it Scorpius asked for? Ah yes, beef Wellington, in honour of Albus' birthday, and here they are, both scrambling to get down the stairs first as if they were twelve rather than twenty. I raise an eyebrow, and they stumble to a halt and take the last few stairs in a more sedate manner.
It’s a moment or two before I take in exactly what Albus is wearing. His outer robes are off, now, and he appears to be wearing the tightest, most revealing pair of Muggle jeans it’s been my misfortune to see. His t-shirt is not much better - a flimsy white thing with a v-neck, the short sleeves snug around his biceps.
Lady Hallwood pauses in her snail's pace to watch them. Lord Hallwood looks as if he'd sooner not be detained on his way to the dining room.
“You remember my son, Scorpius.”
“Of course. And...?” She swivels her head towards Albus.
“Lady Hallwood, this is Albus Potter. He and Scorpius attended Hogwarts together.” It takes some effort to stop my gaze from dropping below Albus’ face.
“Dear me!” She looks at him over her glasses. “But of course. You're the image of your father when he was a boy.”
Albus dips his head. “Everybody says so. I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Hallwood.”
Her face wrinkles with pleasure. “Delighted.” She extends a gloved hand and, Merlin, it's clear that the old bat is actually expecting him to kiss it. Scorpius catches my eye, but although Albus looks a little pink around the ears, he takes the outstretched hand and manages it quite passably.
“Oh, delighted,” Lady Hallwood repeats, as Albus shakes hands with Lord Hallwood, and I can practically hear her telling all her friends how she met the youngest Potter boy – so very charming, you know.
I wonder if it will get back to Potter himself. I wonder if he knows how much time his son spends here.
I wonder if he cares.
I steer Lady Hallwood towards the dining room once again, throwing a quelling look over my shoulder at Scorpius who looks like he's suppressing laughter, but I still hear him whispering to Albus as we make our way along the corridor. I glance at the clock as we go past. Barely half past one. But Lady Hallwood always insists on leaving soon after lunch, no matter how long her husband would like to stay and doze in front of the fire and sozzle himself on my good brandy. She has some revolting little Crup she likes to get home to. I plaster another smile onto my face. It will only be an hour or two. How bad can it be?
~*~
I feel such an idiot. I didn't know they were having guests for lunch. Scorp said a birthday meal, and then, afterwards...
He didn't exactly go into details, but I know he was hoping it'd be a chance for the three of us to be together. Man, I really hoped so too.
Scorp's hand is warm and firm in the small of my back as he whispers close to my ear. “Don't worry. They never stay long.”
Draco glances back at us, a frown on his face. He looks so unapproachable today, his robes all stiff and starchy and done right up to his chin. I'm really regretting wearing these bloody jeans, now. Lily got them for my birthday, from that new shop on Diagon, the one with all the leather stuff in the window, and I hadn't realised quite how fitted the jeans were until I wriggled into them this morning. When I twisted round in front of the mirror to see what I looked like from the back, I nearly took them straight off again. Merlin! I've never seen anything so tight! But I was already running late, and I thought... well, I had a pretty good idea that Scorp would like them.
OK, I admit it: I thought maybe Draco would like them, too.
This corridor to the dining room is about a mile long.
“I can't wait for them to go,” Scorp breathes in my ear, his hand just skimming across my arse, sending a squirm of excitement through me. “You look so fucking hot today.”
I think I make some sound, because everybody looks round at us, and Draco's frowning again. His eyes flick quickly up and down my outfit and I curse myself for dressing so casually, but unless I’m imagining it, there’s a flare of heat in his eyes as they sweep over me.
We reach the dining room and it looks even more fancy than usual in there. There are candles everywhere and a dazzling white cloth on the table, laid with so much silverware and cut glass, and then these very elegant flowers in the middle. It looks a little bit like when Victoire and Teddy got married.
“How lovely.” Lady Hallwood nods her approval.
“I gave Scorpius free rein with the decorations. He made all the arrangements for this meal, in fact.”
Wow. This is all for me?
Draco pulls out a chair for Lady Hallwood. “Albus celebrated his birthday yesterday and my son wanted to mark the occasion.”
“What's that?” Lord Hallwood tilts his head at me. “A birthday, eh?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, well. How old?”
“Twenty.”
“Do you hear that, Margot? Twenty years old.” He nods at me, the loose skin under his chin wobbling. “In the prime of his youth.”
Scorp gestures at me to sit down next to Lady Hallwood.
“I remember those days,” Lord Hallwood chuckles. “Though it was quite a while ago for us, eh, Malfoy?”
Draco's smile looks rather pinched.
“Hope you're sowing plenty of wild knotgrass, my boy.” Lord Hallwood gets himself settled in his seat. “I bet the witches are not safe around you. Handsome lad like him, eh, Malfoy?”
Draco's eyes flick over me once again, and the merest hint of a smirk plays on his lips. “Indeed.”
I feel a pulse of heat along my spine.
Scorp's voice is clear and confident. “Father and I have something a bit special to give Albus, later.”
“Splendid!” Lady Hallwood beams. “Whatever is it?”
“I'd love to tell you.” Scorp looks innocent, but I can see the smirk hiding below. “Really I would.”
“Scorpius,” Draco cautions, his voice low.
“But I don't want to spoil the surprise.”
“Ah, of course not.” Lady Hallwood reaches to pat my hand. God, I'm sweating.
“It's a secret, you see. But I don't think Al will forget it in a hurry. Do you, Father?”
I don't know how Scorpius can be like that, with Draco sitting there looking like hexes will fly if he says another word. My mouth is dry. But, just as Scorp probably intends, I can't help thinking about the three of us together. Later, he said. Oh, Merlin, I hope so. I think about how it feels when Draco closes the door of his room and it's just the three of us. When there are two pairs of eyes on me as I undress. And then, holy hell, when Draco's inside me and Scorp is watching and I'm half out of my mind with it...
“How very exciting!” Lady Hallwood reaches to pat my hand. “Aren't you excited, my dear?”
I just nod. I can't look at Scorp any more, but I can feel his glee radiating across the table. He can be such a git. It’s not even funny, but I have this horrific urge to giggle.
“Champagne, Father?” Scorp asks innocently, and the bottle glides over the table to fill everyone's glasses. Then there's a small pop and the first course appears on the table. It's salmon, which I love, but my stomach is tight with nerves, and I don't think I can eat a lot.
Scorp takes his glass in his hand. “To Albus.” His eyes are full of amusement, and as he takes a sip and then swipes his tongue across his top lip, I feel anticipation fizzing inside me, just like the champagne bubbling in my glass.
~*~
You would not believe how long it takes two old duffers to eat a meal. I honestly don't know how Father puts up with this all the time. I don't know why he bothers – it's hard to miss the fact that he's seriously rolling in it, but every week it's business meetings, contracts to pore over, and boring old buggers round for lunch. By the time the pudding is served – tiny pots of a rich creamy chocolate which slides down your throat like silk – I'm almost out of my mind with impatience. I even consider getting drunk just to take the edge off... but that would put a dampener on our celebration later, and I notice Father's being abstinent with the wine himself.
Al hasn't eaten or drunk a lot, even though he grinned appreciatively at me when the beef came out. I wonder if he's too busy thinking about what's coming next, when it's just the three of us. Wondering what it is we're planning. I made it pretty clear that it was something he'd be happy about, but he seems sort of nervous, and it's hot as fuck.
We messed around in my room for a bit, earlier, while Father entertained the Hallwoods downstairs. I couldn't help it. Al's bum in those new jeans – holy Merlin. I had him sit astride me, his denim-clad arse pressing sweet and sinful against the length of my erection. I got him all revved up, whispering low and dirty in his ear about how my dad wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him. Al was bucking up against me, whining for it, his eyes imploring, but I told him it'd be all the better if he didn't come yet. It nearly killed me to hold him still and promise him later, especially since I had the stupid fucking idea of saving myself for today. I haven't had so much as a wank since Friday – no, actually, it was Thursday night. Merlin, no wonder I feel like this. I'm almost feverish, my skin tingling, like the air around me is charged with endless potential – of the carnal variety. I tell you, it took every ounce of willpower I possess not to simply pull Al down onto me and grind against him until I came, spilling hot and sticky in these bloody formal trousers Father expects me to wear.
I steal a look at Father. He's smiling politely at some story Lord Hallwood is telling, but his eyes keep straying to Al. Al's licking chocolate off his spoon, his tongue searching out the last traces of sweetness, a dreamy expression on his face. Then it's as if he feels the heat of my dad's gaze resting on him. His eyes connect with Father's and he colours, all at once, his normally pale cheeks flushing pink.
I watch them both for a minute, then stretch my legs right out under the table and manage to nudge Al's calf with my foot. His eyes snap to me straight away.
Lord Hallwood's voice rumbles on. “And then, Malfoy, the ruddy fellows had the nerve to claim it was the 1931 vintage. I said to them, 'I know port. Don't tell me I don't.'”
Al's eyes are wide. I hold his gaze and mouth silently, I want you, and watch the shiver of desire travel right through him, his eyes closing for a moment. I wish we could have him right here on the table, Father and I, lay him out naked on the best Malfoy linen. Sweep all of the glass and cutlery aside, let the flowers be crushed under his perfect arse as we pin him down and have our way with him. I chose all this so carefully, wanted the table to look fitting for Al's birthday, but now I want nothing more than to rip those jeans off and fuck him on the ruins of this bloody meal, taking turns, first Father, then me.
Father’s left half of his chocolate, and he’s still not drinking much, but he plays with his wine glass, stroking his fingers slowly along the stem, up and down, in a steady motion. I’ve no idea whether he’s doing it consciously or not, but he certainly has Al’s attention. Al’s face is full of yearning, begging with his eyes as if Father might take pity on him. But what can any of us do? Father sends the wine bottle bobbing over to refill Lord Hallwood's glass again. Perhaps he’s trying to sozzle the old git so much that he falls asleep at the table? “Fascinating,” Father says, in answer to another of Lord Hallwood’s boring stories, but at the time he's watching Al's mouth.
Al doesn't move, but his whole body seems to strain towards Father, and I'd bet my new broom that he's hard again. I think about what his cock must look like, hidden under the tablecloth, his erection blatant under the skin-tight denim. What it must feel like, the constriction of it. He must be cursing the fact he chose those jeans, just as I’m congratulating myself on wearing the flowing robes Father expects when guests are here.
Father's eyes are smoky, his face unsmiling as he lets his gaze wander to Al again and again. Merlin, Al looks as if he'd like to crawl across the table on his hands and knees just so he could get closer to Father. Father is openly staring now, letting his eyes run over Al's body, over his beseeching eyes and gently-parted lips. Nobody could sit here and not notice the heat between the two of them. Nobody. Except for Lord Hallwood, who has his nose in his glass and is making soft snorts of approval, and Lady Hallwood, who is wondering if they hadn't better be getting back to little Chubsy.
“God, you really can't wait can you?” I tell Father, and I'm not sure whether I'm delighted or appalled at how obvious he’s allowing himself to be.
“I beg your pardon, my dear?” Lady Hallwood asks, and Father snaps his attention to me, a warning written all over his face.
I smile. “To give Al his present. We're all pretty psyched up about it.”
“Oh, of course. Montague, my dear, I think we should be going now. Leave the young people to enjoy themselves.”
Lord Hallwood grumbles at being moved on, and Father makes polite protests at their going so soon. But not with much conviction.
“I am sorry, but Chubsy will be missing his mummy. It was lovely to meet you, Mr Potter.”
Then there's a wait while the house-elves fetch their cloaks. It seems to take about a week, especially with Father's eyes fixed acquisitively on Al's arse when we all stand up to see them off. I guess they're either too decrepid or too posh to use the Floo, because Father's arranged a Portkey for them, but I think I might have to break out the Unforgivables when Lady Hallwood starts searching about for a lost handkerchief at the last moment.
“I'll owl it to you the very moment it turns up,” Father assures her, but apparently it belonged to a beloved great-aunt and she can't bear to leave without it.
Al's expression is beginning to look rather odd, his eyes glazing over. Father just about keeps a smile on his face, but there's a tension in the air as if something is about to snap. Eventually, in desperation I say, “What a shame for poor Chubsy. I do hope he isn't inconsolable when you finally get back.”
“Oh, my word!” Lady Hallwood waves a hand. “We simply must go. Thank you, Malfoy.”
Lord Hallwood shakes Father's hand. “I'll be in touch, about that piece of land you’re interested in. Come and have a drink at the club sometime. They've a very fine Bordeaux, I think you'd—”
“Montague, please.” Lady Hallwood takes her husband's hand and lays it on the Portkey. There is a blur of colour where they stood, a brief disturbance of air, and then they are gone.
Al sags with relief against the wall. I close the distance between us and kiss him. I mean it to be soft and reassuring, but it turns hard and needy almost instantly.
Then Father's hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away. “Kindly remember that you are not too old to be punished for disrespect, Scorpius.”
Al makes a little noise, a desperate noise, and we both turn to him. He's got that look on his face he sometimes gets. Like he needs it, really bad.
Father makes a sound that's almost a growl. “And I don't know what you think you're doing turning up here looking like that. At least Scorpius was decently dressed,” he tells Al.
“I— I didn't know you had guests. I would never have—” Al looks like he's genuinely upset.
“Merlin.” Father looks furious, then his expression softens. “Don't pull that face, you ridiculous boy.” He grips Al's shoulder and shakes it, but very gently. “It's only that you have driven me to distraction.”
Al colours again, biting his lip, then looks up at my dad through his lashes. “How do you mean?”
Father's eyebrows draw together in a look I only see him use with Al. On the surface it's stern, but his eyes crinkle into something softer, fonder. “Don't play the innocent. You know perfectly well what I mean.” He gestures to me. “Tell him, Scorpius. Tell him how he looks.”
I swallow. “You’re so fucking hot, Al.”
Al looks at me, his eyes so warm, so guileless. Sometimes, when he's with us, he seems like he can't believe his luck.
“We were sitting there at the table, and all either of us could think about was how much we wanted to fuck you,” I tell him. “Right, Father?”
“Please.” Al looks like he's in pain. “Please. Can we go to your room? Draco? It's been so long.”
I look at Father. He's drinking Al in. The tortured bliss of his face, the tense, eager lines of his body, and the bulge pressing at the flies of those jeans. “Soon,” my father says, with satisfaction, and Al whimpers. “We do have your presents to unwrap, after all.” Father turns to the drawing room. “This way.”
Al casts a begging look at me, but there's nothing I can do. We follow Father into the rather draughty room, where he is unlocking a bureau. He takes out a rolled piece of parchment and a squashy-looking package wrapped in ribbon and tissue, and turns to Al. “Happy birthday, Albus.”
Al looks slightly taken aback. “Wow. Thank you. I wasn't expecting...”
My present has been in the pocket of my robes all this time. I slide it out and hand the envelope to Al. “And here's mine.”
Al takes them from us and stands awkwardly with his hands full. “Thanks, Scorp.”
“Well, sit down,” Father says, unfastening his robes. He and Al sit on the long sofa while I follow Father’s lead and escape from my robes with relief before sinking into an armchair.
Al's looking at the things as if they might be Howlers about to catch fire. “Which should I open first?”
Father waves his hand. “Why not see what Scorpius has given you?”
Al puts the package carefully to one side and starts to open my envelope. I know he'll be pleased. How could he not be? I managed to get hold of two tickets for the best seats at the Bulgaria/Norway final next month. But I'm not expecting the slow smile of joy that tugs at his lips and then lights up his whole face. Nor the fierce glow which ignites in my own chest at the sight of it.
“Oh, Merlin! So fucking cool, Scorp!”
I shrug. “I knew you wanted to go.”
“Even Dad missed out on getting these!” Al gets up and grabs me, hugs me tightly. “You're amazing. You'll come and see it with me, right?”
“Course.” I grin.
Al sits back down, shaking his head happily at the tickets. “Wow,” he says. He slips them carefully back into the envelope and puts them on the table. Next, he takes up the tissue-wrapped parcel again, but almost straight away puts it back down. He looks almost scared of it. He gestures instead to the rolled up parchment. “I should open this first, right?”
“As you wish.” My dad waves a hand casually, but his eyes are fixed on Al's face, like he doesn't want to miss a moment of his reaction.
Al unrolls the parchment slowly, a smile hovering around his mouth, and then just sits there, looking at it. The smile falls away. “I— I don't get it.”
Father speaks kindly, as if to a child. “It's a Gringotts note. We don't deal in coins for this sort of amount.” He smiles. “Far too heavy and inconvenient. You simply take it to the bank, as you would Galleon pieces, and they'll sort it all out for you.”
Al's shaking his head, holding the parchment away from him. “Draco. I can't take this.”
Father waves his hand again. “Don't be ridiculous. It's a birthday gift.”
Al looks up. The hand holding the parchment is shaking, but his voice is firm. “I don't want this.”
Father laughs, but there's the inkling of something else. The beginnings of the realisation that he might have fucked up. “Of course you do. It's gold. Everybody wants gold.”
Al puts the parchment down on the table, looking like someone's punched him. Shit. I can't see the exact number written on the parchment, but there are quite a few zeroes.
I lean forwards. “It's what he always gives me, Al.” This is true. A birthday isn't a birthday without a generous bung from the Malfoy coffers.
“I don't come here for that,” Al says, and his voice sounds tight and shaky, almost as if he's trying not to cry.
Father is frowning, and I can see he's at a total loss. He clearly had no clue that Al would be anything other than delighted. The bloody tosser. I told him to get a present – but I meant something personal, not Galleons, like Al's some whore who expects payment for his services. If Father's ruined today with his fucking thoughtlessness...
“You could put down a deposit on a flat.” The line between Father's eyebrows is deeply furrowed. “Or... I don't know. Travel or somesuch. I doubt they pay you enough at that shop for you to be able to—”
“They pay me OK, thanks.” Al's pale, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks.
“Al. It's just what he does. Seriously.” I move to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Al, put my hand on his shoulder. “He thought you'd like it.” I look at Father, my throat prickling uncomfortably. For god's sake, why doesn't he say something, why doesn't he explain— “He didn't know it would upset you.”
“Of course I bloody didn't.” Father's sitting stiffly. “Why on earth—”
I throw him a look and, miraculously, he falls silent.
Al looks up at me, then at Father, and swallows hard. “I'm not trying to be ungrateful. I just... Draco, I don't want your money, that's not why—”
I cast around desperately. “Look. Forget about that. Open the other one.” I reach forward and thrust the soft parcel into Al's hands. Fuck, Father, this had better be good.
Al's back to looking almost fearful again. Whatever it is, it's certainly exquisitely wrapped. Al glances up at Father, hesitates for one more moment, and then tugs at the elegant ribbon.
The wrappings fall apart with a whisper of tissue and there's something soft folded in Al's hands. He holds it up, and it's some kind of fancy knitwear, unmistakably cashmere. The weave is as fine as gossamer, in a sea-green colour that doesn't exactly match his eyes, but that I can see will bring them out perfectly. He splays his fingers over the wool, then brushes the pad of his thumb across it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. I smile, imagining the intense softness against his skin, like a lover’s caress, and then he's on his feet and stripping off his t-shirt in one impatient movement.
It feels like Father and I both hold our breath as Al's torso is revealed. His nipples pucker at the sudden exposure to the air, and his stomach muscles tighten as he scrambles to pull on the sweater. His head slithers through the hole and I see for the first time that there's a hood at the back, in the same fine-knit wool as the rest of it. I realise that my father has somehow managed to find a ludicrously luxurious version of Al's favourite kind of hoodie sweatshirt.
Al smooths the cashmere down over his bare skin. It must feel amazing; it certainly looks it. It fits snugly across his chest, around his trim waist, scooping down around his neck so that his collarbones just peek out. It looks like it’s been made for him. Quite possibly it has. His hair looks black as night, the deep green making his skin glow, and his eyes are shining. He looks at my dad as if no-one ever gave him a present before, my Quidditch tickets long forgotten.
“It's beautiful,” Al says simply.
Father doesn't speak. His head tilts nonchalantly, but there's a hint of pink on his cheeks.
“And you chose this for me?” Al asks.
Father nods, then stands and reaches to stroke the jumper as it sits across Al's shoulders, as if appraising the fit. His fingers trail downwards over Al's biceps and I imagine how it must feel, the softness of the wool shifting over the firm muscle beneath.
Al's eyes close for a moment and my father strokes his thumb over Al's chest, as if brushing away a speck of something. Father does it again, once, twice, and I see the nub of Al's nipple peak to meet his touch through the fine wool.
“I love it,” Al breathes.
My father is staring at him, watching his face, looking at him in that way he has, as if there's no-one else in the room.
“Thank you.” The words are so soft, his lips pushing forward as he forms them, with my father staring at his mouth the whole time, and all I can think is, thank Merlin, thank Merlin.
~*~
Of course I chose it. I wouldn't trust anyone else to find something that suited him so well.
I got a Portkey to Milan on a whim a few days ago. I needed a new pair of shoes, anyway, and then I thought, while I was in the city, why not pick something up for Albus, too?
I strolled through the Galleria until a window display caught my eye. Cashmere seemed so apt for him. It's warm and playful, so delightfully sensual – and this shop was clearly aiming to appeal to young customers with their colourful display. It even featured some sweaters with those absurd hoods Albus apparently likes so much. I spent half an hour browsing there, stroking the fine wool, imagining how each piece would look on Albus' frame. Imagining him sheathed in luxury, in something that fitted him to perfection. Something I chose for him, understanding the best way to show off his body. I got them to gift wrap it, surprised at the smile which flickered across my lips at the thought of giving it to him.
It's certainly satisfying when he lunges at me, pressing me down onto the sofa again, his mouth soft and warm and fervent, his kisses full of eager appreciation. I find my hand in his hair without quite knowing how it got there, and a lapful of determined twenty-year-old. He moans into my mouth, two armfuls of delicious contrasts: the pillowy lushness of his mouth, the chaos of his thick hair, the way his body feels against my fingers, wrapped in the finest cashmere and those deplorable slutty jeans.
He squirms against me, his voice urgent, “Oh, please, god, yes, Draco, please,” and I have to grip him tight to stop him grinding against me, my fingers implacable, digging in harshly to his narrow hips.
“Wait,” I tell him, but he just groans and shudders in my arms, as if he's past hearing. Merlin, it has been a while. I've never seen him quite so near the edge so quickly. “Albus,” I say sternly. “Not yet. You have to wait.”
Part 2
Author:
birdsofshorePairing: Draco / Albus Severus / Scorpius
Word count: ~15k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: ahaha *nervous laugh*. Threesomes, jealousy, pining, powerplay, orgasm denial, Malfoys being Malfoys, Draco being an utter dick, blow jobs, wanking, smutty smut, kind of incesty. Really kind of incesty.
Summary: Al is turning twenty, and Scorpius is determined to give him a birthday that they’ll all remember. Sequel to Euphoria.
A/N: Well, this is sort of complicated. This is a late birthday present for
gracerene. So sorry, grace, I started writing this absolutely ages ago, intending to give it to you for your birthday. Unfortunately life and other writing commitments got in the way. *hangs head* Anyway, here I am posting it on Draco’s birthday. So it’s a present for our beloved Mr Malfoy, as well. But the story itself is about Albus’ birthday. Confused yet?Thank you,
gracerene, for being such a lovely part of fandom - you’re a super writer, commenter, reader, mod, and fandom cheerleader. I don’t know how you manage it all! ♥ Please forgive the lateness of this gift. I loved revisiting these three kinky bastards and very much hope that you enjoy what they get up to here.A massive thank you to
lq_traintracks and who_la_hoop for betaing this for me.~*~
Scorpius,
Are you guys free for me to visit you next Sunday? No offence to my family, but I'm thinking a break from them might be nice after this big birthday bash on the Saturday.
Al
~*~
Hey Al,
Fuck yes. We can celebrate properly. Or improperly.
Come whenever you like. I'll make sure Dad's not busy.
Scorp
~*~
“Father.”
“Mmm?”
“It's Al's birthday next Saturday.”
He carries on looking at his parchment through his reading glasses, but I know he's heard me.
“He's going to spend the day here on Sunday. I thought we could have a small party for him. Just us. Then I might take him out in the evening, with Noel and the others.”
“Hmm.” He turns over a document and squints at it.
“Father.”
“What is it, Scorpius?” There's a vertical line between his eyebrows. “Can't you see I'm trying to—”
“Al's birthday. You're free on Sunday, right? I've told him we'll celebrate with him.”
“Very well.” He studies the tiny writing again, then— “Sunday? Oh, no, Scorpius. Lord and Lady Hallwood are coming for lunch.”
Damn. “Can't you cancel?”
“No, no. You'll have to change your plans with Albus.”
“It's all arranged. I can't cancel now.” I feel a ridiculous pang of disappointment. “It's for his birthday, Father.”
He frowns at me over his half-moon glasses. He looks such an old fart in them. Then he sighs. “I suppose they don't usually stay terribly long. We can celebrate with Albus afterwards.”
I grin. “Great. And he can join us for lunch?”
He waves a hand, already back with his papers. “If he wishes.”
“Thank you, Father.” Something occurs to me, and I take my lip between my teeth. “Father. You will... you will get Al a present, won't you?”
He peers at me again. It's a long time since I was six, but he still knows how to make me want to squirm like a little boy. “Scorpius. I hardly need reminding of the proper etiquette for a birthday.”
“No. Of course not. I just... OK. Great.” I turn to go, then remember. “Can I tell the house-elves to serve boeuf en croute? It's Al's favourite.”
“Yes, yes. Whatever you like. Shut the door on your way out.”
I go back to my room and sprawl on the bed. What a pain that Dad's got people coming. I'd hoped we could just relax and... well, I had a lot of ideas for the day. But there'll still be time, I suppose. I look up at the ceiling and start the planning in earnest.
~*~
My birthday's like a big muddle of noise and laughter and hugs and presents and the biggest, most terrifying Weasley jumper I've ever seen. Each arm must be about four foot long.“Well, you've grown so much these last couple of years, Albus dear.” Grandma fusses about, pulling at it and trying to smooth the lilac wool over my chest. “But doesn't that colour set off his eyes beautifully? Look, Ginny. Look at him!” She reaches up to pinch my cheek. “Your little boy, all grown up.”
James smirks, and when no-one's listening, tells me I look like a total poof.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I tell him, and then roll my eyes when he looks confused. He never gets anything to do with Muggle stuff.
Dad cooks his famous curry and Grandma has baked a giant cake, covered with buttercream icing and a big number twenty that's charmed to glitter and give out sparks until it's cut. It tastes a bit sickly, but I manage two large slices, and she beams.
Don't get me wrong, I love being with them all, but part of me keeps thinking about tomorrow. I wonder if Draco will be there – I know what Scorp said, but sometimes, when I go over, Draco's not around, even if we've planned it and Scorp's promised he will be.
It's not like I don't enjoy it when it's just me and Scorp. He's brilliant. So funny, and cool, and, man, he's fit and gorgeous as well. And it's more than that. A lot more. Sometimes, I don't know. He makes me feel so fucking special.
But the times when Draco's there as well... I'm shivering, right now, just thinking about it. Good shivers, right through me, making me shift in my seat, here at the dinner table, with the wreck of Grandma's cake in front of me and Uncle Ron and Uncle George pretending to Jinx each other over who's going to do the washing up. Draco's like... something addictive. Something that might be bad for you, but it makes you feel too fucking good to care.
Scorp's like a long flight on a new broom in the sunshine. It feels fast and free and you're exhilarated and pink in the face and it's just so good. Afterwards you know your muscles will ache a bit, but in a healthy way, and you'll lie there all relaxed and peaceful and feeling pretty great about yourself.
Draco's like a gloved hand in the dark, wrapping itself around your throat. Your heart hammers in your chest and it's too much, you feel a little bit twisted up and scared and you can't quite believe it's happening... but you love it. You don't really know what you're doing, you wonder what the actual fuck you're doing, but it feels too good to stop: too fast, too risky, too incredible. Afterwards, you look in the mirror and wonder if other people can see it in your eyes, what you've done. What you are.
It's been nearly three weeks since I've seen him – properly seen him – and I'm starting to feel jittery, just thinking about it and how much I need it.
~*~
There are few things more tedious, or less avoidable, than entertaining one's business associates.
Lady Hallwood must have been here a dozen times over the last five years and she never fails to look surprised when I explain that Mrs Malfoy will not be joining us for luncheon because Mrs Malfoy, now Signora De Fiore, lives in a chateau in Italy with her second husband. A chateau that I personally paid for as part of our divorce settlement. And a large part of the reason why I have to entertain boring bloody people like this for lunch all the time is to ensure that I can continue to pay for the upkeep of that bloody expensive pile of bricks.
I take a deep breath. “How's your sherry, Lord Hallwood?”
“Oh, it's quite all right, Malfoy. I do like a good drop of sherry.”
I don't know where the children have got to. Albus appeared at about eleven this morning, all rosy cheeks and rumpled robes as he tumbled out of the Floo, but he and Scorpius vanished upstairs and haven't been heard of since, except for the odd muffled burst of laughter.
I can't deny I'm looking forward to – how did Scorpius put it? Celebrating with Albus, later on. It's been a very wearing couple of weeks, and I've not had any time for relaxation. I make a mental note to make more time for the two boys. It's important for Scorpius to spend time with his father. An image flashes into my mind of Albus as I had him last. Laid out naked across my bed, his hair sticking to his face with sweat and the nearest wall spelled to a mirror shine so I could watch myself fucking into him with long, merciless strokes.
I could see Scorpius reflected there too, a shadowy, quiet shape sitting in his accustomed spot in the corner. He always sits quite still, as if afraid that movement will break the spell. Still, but for the intent movement of his hand, that is.
The dinner bell rings, and I realise I have been utterly inattentive to my guests' interminable tale about their last Portkey to Greece. Hopefully they're fond enough of the sound of their own voices not to have noticed. I smile and gesture towards the door. “Won't you join me in the dining room?”
A smug look of satisfaction creases Lord Hallwood's plump face. “Excellent. We can always be sure of getting something good here, Malfoy.”
“Our house-elves have been in the family for generations, naturally.”
What is it Scorpius asked for? Ah yes, beef Wellington, in honour of Albus' birthday, and here they are, both scrambling to get down the stairs first as if they were twelve rather than twenty. I raise an eyebrow, and they stumble to a halt and take the last few stairs in a more sedate manner.
It’s a moment or two before I take in exactly what Albus is wearing. His outer robes are off, now, and he appears to be wearing the tightest, most revealing pair of Muggle jeans it’s been my misfortune to see. His t-shirt is not much better - a flimsy white thing with a v-neck, the short sleeves snug around his biceps.
Lady Hallwood pauses in her snail's pace to watch them. Lord Hallwood looks as if he'd sooner not be detained on his way to the dining room.
“You remember my son, Scorpius.”
“Of course. And...?” She swivels her head towards Albus.
“Lady Hallwood, this is Albus Potter. He and Scorpius attended Hogwarts together.” It takes some effort to stop my gaze from dropping below Albus’ face.
“Dear me!” She looks at him over her glasses. “But of course. You're the image of your father when he was a boy.”
Albus dips his head. “Everybody says so. I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Hallwood.”
Her face wrinkles with pleasure. “Delighted.” She extends a gloved hand and, Merlin, it's clear that the old bat is actually expecting him to kiss it. Scorpius catches my eye, but although Albus looks a little pink around the ears, he takes the outstretched hand and manages it quite passably.
“Oh, delighted,” Lady Hallwood repeats, as Albus shakes hands with Lord Hallwood, and I can practically hear her telling all her friends how she met the youngest Potter boy – so very charming, you know.
I wonder if it will get back to Potter himself. I wonder if he knows how much time his son spends here.
I wonder if he cares.
I steer Lady Hallwood towards the dining room once again, throwing a quelling look over my shoulder at Scorpius who looks like he's suppressing laughter, but I still hear him whispering to Albus as we make our way along the corridor. I glance at the clock as we go past. Barely half past one. But Lady Hallwood always insists on leaving soon after lunch, no matter how long her husband would like to stay and doze in front of the fire and sozzle himself on my good brandy. She has some revolting little Crup she likes to get home to. I plaster another smile onto my face. It will only be an hour or two. How bad can it be?
~*~
I feel such an idiot. I didn't know they were having guests for lunch. Scorp said a birthday meal, and then, afterwards...
He didn't exactly go into details, but I know he was hoping it'd be a chance for the three of us to be together. Man, I really hoped so too.
Scorp's hand is warm and firm in the small of my back as he whispers close to my ear. “Don't worry. They never stay long.”
Draco glances back at us, a frown on his face. He looks so unapproachable today, his robes all stiff and starchy and done right up to his chin. I'm really regretting wearing these bloody jeans, now. Lily got them for my birthday, from that new shop on Diagon, the one with all the leather stuff in the window, and I hadn't realised quite how fitted the jeans were until I wriggled into them this morning. When I twisted round in front of the mirror to see what I looked like from the back, I nearly took them straight off again. Merlin! I've never seen anything so tight! But I was already running late, and I thought... well, I had a pretty good idea that Scorp would like them.
OK, I admit it: I thought maybe Draco would like them, too.
This corridor to the dining room is about a mile long.
“I can't wait for them to go,” Scorp breathes in my ear, his hand just skimming across my arse, sending a squirm of excitement through me. “You look so fucking hot today.”
I think I make some sound, because everybody looks round at us, and Draco's frowning again. His eyes flick quickly up and down my outfit and I curse myself for dressing so casually, but unless I’m imagining it, there’s a flare of heat in his eyes as they sweep over me.
We reach the dining room and it looks even more fancy than usual in there. There are candles everywhere and a dazzling white cloth on the table, laid with so much silverware and cut glass, and then these very elegant flowers in the middle. It looks a little bit like when Victoire and Teddy got married.
“How lovely.” Lady Hallwood nods her approval.
“I gave Scorpius free rein with the decorations. He made all the arrangements for this meal, in fact.”
Wow. This is all for me?
Draco pulls out a chair for Lady Hallwood. “Albus celebrated his birthday yesterday and my son wanted to mark the occasion.”
“What's that?” Lord Hallwood tilts his head at me. “A birthday, eh?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, well. How old?”
“Twenty.”
“Do you hear that, Margot? Twenty years old.” He nods at me, the loose skin under his chin wobbling. “In the prime of his youth.”
Scorp gestures at me to sit down next to Lady Hallwood.
“I remember those days,” Lord Hallwood chuckles. “Though it was quite a while ago for us, eh, Malfoy?”
Draco's smile looks rather pinched.
“Hope you're sowing plenty of wild knotgrass, my boy.” Lord Hallwood gets himself settled in his seat. “I bet the witches are not safe around you. Handsome lad like him, eh, Malfoy?”
Draco's eyes flick over me once again, and the merest hint of a smirk plays on his lips. “Indeed.”
I feel a pulse of heat along my spine.
Scorp's voice is clear and confident. “Father and I have something a bit special to give Albus, later.”
“Splendid!” Lady Hallwood beams. “Whatever is it?”
“I'd love to tell you.” Scorp looks innocent, but I can see the smirk hiding below. “Really I would.”
“Scorpius,” Draco cautions, his voice low.
“But I don't want to spoil the surprise.”
“Ah, of course not.” Lady Hallwood reaches to pat my hand. God, I'm sweating.
“It's a secret, you see. But I don't think Al will forget it in a hurry. Do you, Father?”
I don't know how Scorpius can be like that, with Draco sitting there looking like hexes will fly if he says another word. My mouth is dry. But, just as Scorp probably intends, I can't help thinking about the three of us together. Later, he said. Oh, Merlin, I hope so. I think about how it feels when Draco closes the door of his room and it's just the three of us. When there are two pairs of eyes on me as I undress. And then, holy hell, when Draco's inside me and Scorp is watching and I'm half out of my mind with it...
“How very exciting!” Lady Hallwood reaches to pat my hand. “Aren't you excited, my dear?”
I just nod. I can't look at Scorp any more, but I can feel his glee radiating across the table. He can be such a git. It’s not even funny, but I have this horrific urge to giggle.
“Champagne, Father?” Scorp asks innocently, and the bottle glides over the table to fill everyone's glasses. Then there's a small pop and the first course appears on the table. It's salmon, which I love, but my stomach is tight with nerves, and I don't think I can eat a lot.
Scorp takes his glass in his hand. “To Albus.” His eyes are full of amusement, and as he takes a sip and then swipes his tongue across his top lip, I feel anticipation fizzing inside me, just like the champagne bubbling in my glass.
~*~
You would not believe how long it takes two old duffers to eat a meal. I honestly don't know how Father puts up with this all the time. I don't know why he bothers – it's hard to miss the fact that he's seriously rolling in it, but every week it's business meetings, contracts to pore over, and boring old buggers round for lunch. By the time the pudding is served – tiny pots of a rich creamy chocolate which slides down your throat like silk – I'm almost out of my mind with impatience. I even consider getting drunk just to take the edge off... but that would put a dampener on our celebration later, and I notice Father's being abstinent with the wine himself.
Al hasn't eaten or drunk a lot, even though he grinned appreciatively at me when the beef came out. I wonder if he's too busy thinking about what's coming next, when it's just the three of us. Wondering what it is we're planning. I made it pretty clear that it was something he'd be happy about, but he seems sort of nervous, and it's hot as fuck.
We messed around in my room for a bit, earlier, while Father entertained the Hallwoods downstairs. I couldn't help it. Al's bum in those new jeans – holy Merlin. I had him sit astride me, his denim-clad arse pressing sweet and sinful against the length of my erection. I got him all revved up, whispering low and dirty in his ear about how my dad wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him. Al was bucking up against me, whining for it, his eyes imploring, but I told him it'd be all the better if he didn't come yet. It nearly killed me to hold him still and promise him later, especially since I had the stupid fucking idea of saving myself for today. I haven't had so much as a wank since Friday – no, actually, it was Thursday night. Merlin, no wonder I feel like this. I'm almost feverish, my skin tingling, like the air around me is charged with endless potential – of the carnal variety. I tell you, it took every ounce of willpower I possess not to simply pull Al down onto me and grind against him until I came, spilling hot and sticky in these bloody formal trousers Father expects me to wear.
I steal a look at Father. He's smiling politely at some story Lord Hallwood is telling, but his eyes keep straying to Al. Al's licking chocolate off his spoon, his tongue searching out the last traces of sweetness, a dreamy expression on his face. Then it's as if he feels the heat of my dad's gaze resting on him. His eyes connect with Father's and he colours, all at once, his normally pale cheeks flushing pink.
I watch them both for a minute, then stretch my legs right out under the table and manage to nudge Al's calf with my foot. His eyes snap to me straight away.
Lord Hallwood's voice rumbles on. “And then, Malfoy, the ruddy fellows had the nerve to claim it was the 1931 vintage. I said to them, 'I know port. Don't tell me I don't.'”
Al's eyes are wide. I hold his gaze and mouth silently, I want you, and watch the shiver of desire travel right through him, his eyes closing for a moment. I wish we could have him right here on the table, Father and I, lay him out naked on the best Malfoy linen. Sweep all of the glass and cutlery aside, let the flowers be crushed under his perfect arse as we pin him down and have our way with him. I chose all this so carefully, wanted the table to look fitting for Al's birthday, but now I want nothing more than to rip those jeans off and fuck him on the ruins of this bloody meal, taking turns, first Father, then me.
Father’s left half of his chocolate, and he’s still not drinking much, but he plays with his wine glass, stroking his fingers slowly along the stem, up and down, in a steady motion. I’ve no idea whether he’s doing it consciously or not, but he certainly has Al’s attention. Al’s face is full of yearning, begging with his eyes as if Father might take pity on him. But what can any of us do? Father sends the wine bottle bobbing over to refill Lord Hallwood's glass again. Perhaps he’s trying to sozzle the old git so much that he falls asleep at the table? “Fascinating,” Father says, in answer to another of Lord Hallwood’s boring stories, but at the time he's watching Al's mouth.
Al doesn't move, but his whole body seems to strain towards Father, and I'd bet my new broom that he's hard again. I think about what his cock must look like, hidden under the tablecloth, his erection blatant under the skin-tight denim. What it must feel like, the constriction of it. He must be cursing the fact he chose those jeans, just as I’m congratulating myself on wearing the flowing robes Father expects when guests are here.
Father's eyes are smoky, his face unsmiling as he lets his gaze wander to Al again and again. Merlin, Al looks as if he'd like to crawl across the table on his hands and knees just so he could get closer to Father. Father is openly staring now, letting his eyes run over Al's body, over his beseeching eyes and gently-parted lips. Nobody could sit here and not notice the heat between the two of them. Nobody. Except for Lord Hallwood, who has his nose in his glass and is making soft snorts of approval, and Lady Hallwood, who is wondering if they hadn't better be getting back to little Chubsy.
“God, you really can't wait can you?” I tell Father, and I'm not sure whether I'm delighted or appalled at how obvious he’s allowing himself to be.
“I beg your pardon, my dear?” Lady Hallwood asks, and Father snaps his attention to me, a warning written all over his face.
I smile. “To give Al his present. We're all pretty psyched up about it.”
“Oh, of course. Montague, my dear, I think we should be going now. Leave the young people to enjoy themselves.”
Lord Hallwood grumbles at being moved on, and Father makes polite protests at their going so soon. But not with much conviction.
“I am sorry, but Chubsy will be missing his mummy. It was lovely to meet you, Mr Potter.”
Then there's a wait while the house-elves fetch their cloaks. It seems to take about a week, especially with Father's eyes fixed acquisitively on Al's arse when we all stand up to see them off. I guess they're either too decrepid or too posh to use the Floo, because Father's arranged a Portkey for them, but I think I might have to break out the Unforgivables when Lady Hallwood starts searching about for a lost handkerchief at the last moment.
“I'll owl it to you the very moment it turns up,” Father assures her, but apparently it belonged to a beloved great-aunt and she can't bear to leave without it.
Al's expression is beginning to look rather odd, his eyes glazing over. Father just about keeps a smile on his face, but there's a tension in the air as if something is about to snap. Eventually, in desperation I say, “What a shame for poor Chubsy. I do hope he isn't inconsolable when you finally get back.”
“Oh, my word!” Lady Hallwood waves a hand. “We simply must go. Thank you, Malfoy.”
Lord Hallwood shakes Father's hand. “I'll be in touch, about that piece of land you’re interested in. Come and have a drink at the club sometime. They've a very fine Bordeaux, I think you'd—”
“Montague, please.” Lady Hallwood takes her husband's hand and lays it on the Portkey. There is a blur of colour where they stood, a brief disturbance of air, and then they are gone.
Al sags with relief against the wall. I close the distance between us and kiss him. I mean it to be soft and reassuring, but it turns hard and needy almost instantly.
Then Father's hand is on my shoulder, pulling me away. “Kindly remember that you are not too old to be punished for disrespect, Scorpius.”
Al makes a little noise, a desperate noise, and we both turn to him. He's got that look on his face he sometimes gets. Like he needs it, really bad.
Father makes a sound that's almost a growl. “And I don't know what you think you're doing turning up here looking like that. At least Scorpius was decently dressed,” he tells Al.
“I— I didn't know you had guests. I would never have—” Al looks like he's genuinely upset.
“Merlin.” Father looks furious, then his expression softens. “Don't pull that face, you ridiculous boy.” He grips Al's shoulder and shakes it, but very gently. “It's only that you have driven me to distraction.”
Al colours again, biting his lip, then looks up at my dad through his lashes. “How do you mean?”
Father's eyebrows draw together in a look I only see him use with Al. On the surface it's stern, but his eyes crinkle into something softer, fonder. “Don't play the innocent. You know perfectly well what I mean.” He gestures to me. “Tell him, Scorpius. Tell him how he looks.”
I swallow. “You’re so fucking hot, Al.”
Al looks at me, his eyes so warm, so guileless. Sometimes, when he's with us, he seems like he can't believe his luck.
“We were sitting there at the table, and all either of us could think about was how much we wanted to fuck you,” I tell him. “Right, Father?”
“Please.” Al looks like he's in pain. “Please. Can we go to your room? Draco? It's been so long.”
I look at Father. He's drinking Al in. The tortured bliss of his face, the tense, eager lines of his body, and the bulge pressing at the flies of those jeans. “Soon,” my father says, with satisfaction, and Al whimpers. “We do have your presents to unwrap, after all.” Father turns to the drawing room. “This way.”
Al casts a begging look at me, but there's nothing I can do. We follow Father into the rather draughty room, where he is unlocking a bureau. He takes out a rolled piece of parchment and a squashy-looking package wrapped in ribbon and tissue, and turns to Al. “Happy birthday, Albus.”
Al looks slightly taken aback. “Wow. Thank you. I wasn't expecting...”
My present has been in the pocket of my robes all this time. I slide it out and hand the envelope to Al. “And here's mine.”
Al takes them from us and stands awkwardly with his hands full. “Thanks, Scorp.”
“Well, sit down,” Father says, unfastening his robes. He and Al sit on the long sofa while I follow Father’s lead and escape from my robes with relief before sinking into an armchair.
Al's looking at the things as if they might be Howlers about to catch fire. “Which should I open first?”
Father waves his hand. “Why not see what Scorpius has given you?”
Al puts the package carefully to one side and starts to open my envelope. I know he'll be pleased. How could he not be? I managed to get hold of two tickets for the best seats at the Bulgaria/Norway final next month. But I'm not expecting the slow smile of joy that tugs at his lips and then lights up his whole face. Nor the fierce glow which ignites in my own chest at the sight of it.
“Oh, Merlin! So fucking cool, Scorp!”
I shrug. “I knew you wanted to go.”
“Even Dad missed out on getting these!” Al gets up and grabs me, hugs me tightly. “You're amazing. You'll come and see it with me, right?”
“Course.” I grin.
Al sits back down, shaking his head happily at the tickets. “Wow,” he says. He slips them carefully back into the envelope and puts them on the table. Next, he takes up the tissue-wrapped parcel again, but almost straight away puts it back down. He looks almost scared of it. He gestures instead to the rolled up parchment. “I should open this first, right?”
“As you wish.” My dad waves a hand casually, but his eyes are fixed on Al's face, like he doesn't want to miss a moment of his reaction.
Al unrolls the parchment slowly, a smile hovering around his mouth, and then just sits there, looking at it. The smile falls away. “I— I don't get it.”
Father speaks kindly, as if to a child. “It's a Gringotts note. We don't deal in coins for this sort of amount.” He smiles. “Far too heavy and inconvenient. You simply take it to the bank, as you would Galleon pieces, and they'll sort it all out for you.”
Al's shaking his head, holding the parchment away from him. “Draco. I can't take this.”
Father waves his hand again. “Don't be ridiculous. It's a birthday gift.”
Al looks up. The hand holding the parchment is shaking, but his voice is firm. “I don't want this.”
Father laughs, but there's the inkling of something else. The beginnings of the realisation that he might have fucked up. “Of course you do. It's gold. Everybody wants gold.”
Al puts the parchment down on the table, looking like someone's punched him. Shit. I can't see the exact number written on the parchment, but there are quite a few zeroes.
I lean forwards. “It's what he always gives me, Al.” This is true. A birthday isn't a birthday without a generous bung from the Malfoy coffers.
“I don't come here for that,” Al says, and his voice sounds tight and shaky, almost as if he's trying not to cry.
Father is frowning, and I can see he's at a total loss. He clearly had no clue that Al would be anything other than delighted. The bloody tosser. I told him to get a present – but I meant something personal, not Galleons, like Al's some whore who expects payment for his services. If Father's ruined today with his fucking thoughtlessness...
“You could put down a deposit on a flat.” The line between Father's eyebrows is deeply furrowed. “Or... I don't know. Travel or somesuch. I doubt they pay you enough at that shop for you to be able to—”
“They pay me OK, thanks.” Al's pale, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks.
“Al. It's just what he does. Seriously.” I move to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Al, put my hand on his shoulder. “He thought you'd like it.” I look at Father, my throat prickling uncomfortably. For god's sake, why doesn't he say something, why doesn't he explain— “He didn't know it would upset you.”
“Of course I bloody didn't.” Father's sitting stiffly. “Why on earth—”
I throw him a look and, miraculously, he falls silent.
Al looks up at me, then at Father, and swallows hard. “I'm not trying to be ungrateful. I just... Draco, I don't want your money, that's not why—”
I cast around desperately. “Look. Forget about that. Open the other one.” I reach forward and thrust the soft parcel into Al's hands. Fuck, Father, this had better be good.
Al's back to looking almost fearful again. Whatever it is, it's certainly exquisitely wrapped. Al glances up at Father, hesitates for one more moment, and then tugs at the elegant ribbon.
The wrappings fall apart with a whisper of tissue and there's something soft folded in Al's hands. He holds it up, and it's some kind of fancy knitwear, unmistakably cashmere. The weave is as fine as gossamer, in a sea-green colour that doesn't exactly match his eyes, but that I can see will bring them out perfectly. He splays his fingers over the wool, then brushes the pad of his thumb across it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. I smile, imagining the intense softness against his skin, like a lover’s caress, and then he's on his feet and stripping off his t-shirt in one impatient movement.
It feels like Father and I both hold our breath as Al's torso is revealed. His nipples pucker at the sudden exposure to the air, and his stomach muscles tighten as he scrambles to pull on the sweater. His head slithers through the hole and I see for the first time that there's a hood at the back, in the same fine-knit wool as the rest of it. I realise that my father has somehow managed to find a ludicrously luxurious version of Al's favourite kind of hoodie sweatshirt.
Al smooths the cashmere down over his bare skin. It must feel amazing; it certainly looks it. It fits snugly across his chest, around his trim waist, scooping down around his neck so that his collarbones just peek out. It looks like it’s been made for him. Quite possibly it has. His hair looks black as night, the deep green making his skin glow, and his eyes are shining. He looks at my dad as if no-one ever gave him a present before, my Quidditch tickets long forgotten.
“It's beautiful,” Al says simply.
Father doesn't speak. His head tilts nonchalantly, but there's a hint of pink on his cheeks.
“And you chose this for me?” Al asks.
Father nods, then stands and reaches to stroke the jumper as it sits across Al's shoulders, as if appraising the fit. His fingers trail downwards over Al's biceps and I imagine how it must feel, the softness of the wool shifting over the firm muscle beneath.
Al's eyes close for a moment and my father strokes his thumb over Al's chest, as if brushing away a speck of something. Father does it again, once, twice, and I see the nub of Al's nipple peak to meet his touch through the fine wool.
“I love it,” Al breathes.
My father is staring at him, watching his face, looking at him in that way he has, as if there's no-one else in the room.
“Thank you.” The words are so soft, his lips pushing forward as he forms them, with my father staring at his mouth the whole time, and all I can think is, thank Merlin, thank Merlin.
~*~
Of course I chose it. I wouldn't trust anyone else to find something that suited him so well.
I got a Portkey to Milan on a whim a few days ago. I needed a new pair of shoes, anyway, and then I thought, while I was in the city, why not pick something up for Albus, too?
I strolled through the Galleria until a window display caught my eye. Cashmere seemed so apt for him. It's warm and playful, so delightfully sensual – and this shop was clearly aiming to appeal to young customers with their colourful display. It even featured some sweaters with those absurd hoods Albus apparently likes so much. I spent half an hour browsing there, stroking the fine wool, imagining how each piece would look on Albus' frame. Imagining him sheathed in luxury, in something that fitted him to perfection. Something I chose for him, understanding the best way to show off his body. I got them to gift wrap it, surprised at the smile which flickered across my lips at the thought of giving it to him.
It's certainly satisfying when he lunges at me, pressing me down onto the sofa again, his mouth soft and warm and fervent, his kisses full of eager appreciation. I find my hand in his hair without quite knowing how it got there, and a lapful of determined twenty-year-old. He moans into my mouth, two armfuls of delicious contrasts: the pillowy lushness of his mouth, the chaos of his thick hair, the way his body feels against my fingers, wrapped in the finest cashmere and those deplorable slutty jeans.
He squirms against me, his voice urgent, “Oh, please, god, yes, Draco, please,” and I have to grip him tight to stop him grinding against me, my fingers implacable, digging in harshly to his narrow hips.
“Wait,” I tell him, but he just groans and shudders in my arms, as if he's past hearing. Merlin, it has been a while. I've never seen him quite so near the edge so quickly. “Albus,” I say sternly. “Not yet. You have to wait.”
Part 2
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I am desperately trying to finish my June
SO EXCITED!
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You have killed me. I am dead. Which is extra terrible because HOW WILL I READ THE REST OF THIS MASTERPIECE!?!?
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♥
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I haven't even read it yet but I am already in tears. One of my all time favourite fictions now has a sequel! DEEP BREATHS! I know this is a gift for Grace/Draco but OMG it feels like it's every holiday all wrapped up in a bow and I want to tear it open.
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I hope you enjoy it! If not, just pretend this never happened, OK?
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I feel like such a lucky little brat though. Some people have been waiting for this for a while now, I know, but I only read the original recently so it's been such a short wait for me. Heh. I feel like I've cheated somehow.
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Hardly anyone even knew I was writing this, let alone were waiting for it, so I don't think it's really the same though, LOL.
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I got a little carried away, I suppose you could say. Although to be honest that's more or less still how I feel. I can't wait until I have the time to read it. I runno *half-embarrassed shrug* I honestly just really, really liked that fic, and the idea that there was more coming made me lose my mind. Snort.
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I've made tea. I've got cake. *rolls up sleeves* LET'S DO THIS!
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Please don't hurt Scorpius badly *bites knuckles, whispers* but please hurt him maybe a little bit OMG what is wrong with me, ok, on to part 2
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Listen, whatever's wrong with you, it's wrong with me as well. We can be wrong together.
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Oh dear, I hope I didn't ruin the tea and cake with the feels and the general fucked upness ... :(
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