Author: hikaru / _regarde
Archive: Please ask permission.
Feedback: If you so desire.
Warnings: If you squint real hard, you'll probably find some elements of light D/s, dubious consent, and mind games. Also includes sexual activities in a public place.
Disclaimer: They're all J. K. Rowling's, and I've got the feeling that she'd have my head for this.
Summary: Lucius is the only person that Snape will ever submit to. But not tonight.
Notes: Written for merry_smutmas 2004. In what seems to be a tradition for me, this story started out as a drawing, and morphed into this. I know that it doesn't perfectly match your kinks, but I tried. Enjoy!
A chat over a glass of fine wine sounds just delightful. I'll clear my calendar of responsibilities -- not as though I have many in the first place -- and meet him at the restaurant, seven-thirty sharp. Just like always. Because he requests it, of course. Not a problem at all. Would never dream of missing the date, as it were. Not for the world.
He asks this meeting of me, and I am obligated to say yes. There is no room for error, no time for any misgivings. I've not seen him in quite some time; not in proper, reputable company, at least. Perhaps I should be contemplating my motivations behind meeting up with him one more time. But I've been away from him for so long that part of me doesn't care what my motivations are. I need him, even if he doesn't want me.
I've pencilled him into my life, quite neatly, even if my life is the last place that he would truly want to be.
It is December 24th, and I am sitting at our table in the back of a posh London bistro. It has always been our table, and though we never specified where we would meet today, I knew that he would be quite disappointed were I to choose another table, or another restaurant.
It was our table in 1971, when I was an impressionable eleven year old, elated to be away from the watchful eyes of both my parents and of Hogwarts. It was our table in 1975, when I was a bold fifteen-year old, protesting his rapidly approaching wedding. It was ours in 1977, when I kissed him and unwittingly sealed my fate; it was ours in 1978, when I impetuously swore to him that I would take the Dark Mark. It was ours in 1980, when he celebrated (while I lamented) the birth of his son, and again in 1981, when our lives were in shambles shortly after the defeat of the Dark Lord.
And then, years of silence from both of us. We had neither time nor space for one another. I was a busy professor, allegedly redeemed and forgiven for my transgressions; he was established in the social stratosphere as a man of great consequence, all the while trying his hardest to not appear in company such as mine – all to keep up appearances, of course.
But it was ours again in 1991, when his son was slated to begin school at Hogwarts. We dined on the finest foods, drank the most expensive wine, and reminisced quietly about his rise to adulthood and power and my school days, when I worshipped the ground he walked on. "Such a foolish, infatuated little boy you were, Severus," he ruminated, smiling impishly at me, as if his words were gospel.
I was barely thirty-two, and terrified to tell him that I still would follow him to the ends of the earth. He was the last person that I ever wanted to appear foolish in front of, though it seemed that foolish is all I ever was to him. I frowned and asked if he thought that our relationship -- our time together before his wife and child and the respectable career and the denial of his past -- was merely the silly idealisations of a schoolboy. I think he knew then how horrendously his words had hurt me, though I doubt that he cared. After all, his words always cut right through me. He has a way of doing that.
Lucius learned that night that he should never deviate from tradition. From that meeting forward, we stuck to a strict script of conversation, developed and refined over time, one that would simultaneously manage to infuriate me and please him for more than ten years. And he, as someone who could never tolerate change in the slightest, ensured that I would never feel the urge to change our traditions.
We sat in stony silence for some time after his comment, him sipping coolly from his glass of wine, me tapping my fingers idly on the tabletop. The plate of food in front of me, much like Lucius himself, was no longer appetizing.
He saunters in at slightly after seven-forty-five. He knows, after all, that I am always prompt; I remember that he is always fashionably late. Even though it has been years since we met here last, the wait staff knows him by name. They adore him; they shun me. No one even asked if I needed another drink. I can't say that I blame them. He is light and life and glory; I am dark and sallow and dejected.
"Severus," he says, sweeping into the corner where I sit, patiently waiting for this very moment. I move to rise from my chair to greet him, but he dismisses me with a flippant wave of his hand. "Sit, sit," he says, just as he has every other time we've met here. This is a familiar dance that we do, and neither of us has any desire to break tradition. Resigned, I sit back down and clasp my hands on top of the crisp linen tablecloth, staring uselessly at my fingers.
"Aren't you going to say anything, old friend?" He smiles slightly as he slides into his seat; the same dialogue has escaped his thin lips for decades now.
"Good evening, Lucius," I say, looking directly at him. "How was your trip into London?"
"Dreadful," he responds, shrugging out of his outer robe. "The Floo Network was horribly congested, but it was the only way to travel this late. Makes me wish for simpler times." He settles in his chair finally, flicking his wand at the shed garment and sending it sailing to the nearest coat-rack.
I nod ever so slightly and wait for him to delve into his traditional line of questioning. He sweeps a stray lock of hair behind his ear and smirks at me, clasping his hands atop the table, unintentionally parodying my stiff posture.
"So," he drawls, "another year nearly gone, and you've done nothing to advance yourself in the world." Typically, he gazes upon me with some sort of sadness, perhaps disappointment. Today, he breaks tradition; his expression is hard and scathing, much harsher than looks he has given me in the past. "Your father must be so proud of his sole heir," he snaps.
I flinch at his words, which ring and echo in my head. The memories of over thirty years with Lucius assault me; memories of he and I sitting at this very table, goading me with the same words, the same looks, the same sneers. He is the only person with whom I never have the upper hand. He always wins. He is always perfect.
"Don't speak of my father," I snap back. "How many times must I ask you?"
"Once every few years seems to suffice quite well," Lucius retorts, frowning. "Why must you make me suffer so, Severus?"
Tradition dictates that my response be some self-deprecating remark. Lucius lives for tradition, and while he is free to smash tradition to bits whenever the idea suits him, I am forbidden to do so. It would destroy the balance of our meetings, were I to venture out on my own and be original. Salazar forbid. Our relationship is a carefully crafted one. It is crafted so that he is always the victor.
Tonight, however, there is something about him that I do not like. I feel compelled to challenge his status at our table. I feel compelled to break from this aged tradition. As he stares at me, awaiting the appropriate response, I decide that I do not want to be stuck in this routine for any longer.
Inhaling deeply, I look up and stare directly into his eyes. "Because you deserve it," I snarl, not just breaking the tradition but shattering it.
"Severus," he gasps, gaze narrowing in anger. "You know that's not the correct answer." He reaches forward to grasp the glass of wine in front of him. "I'm disappointed in you."
"Congratulations." My frown deepens. I am too old for his games, I have decided. Tradition or no, it all ends here. "You're not the first to feel as such." I push my chair back from the table, acting like the stubborn boy that he has always accused me of being.
"Severus," Lucius growls, the tone of his voice warning that I risk something far more sinister than his disapproval if I leave the table. I have known him for long enough to not second-guess that tone. I pull myself back up to the table, folding my arms angrily across my chest.
"You are not pleased," I spit, cutting him off before he can even open his mouth to echo the same sentiment that I have just voiced. "I know." I watch him with wary eyes as he frowns severely before taking a sip from the goblet of wine before him.
He says nothing and merely regards me coolly over the rim of his goblet as he swishes the remaining liquid around in it. I should fear him. I wonder when my courage against this man had left me, when I had turned into such a simpering fool. I should wonder when the Killing Curse will come. Lucius does not deal well with boldness, when the boldness comes from someone who has been trained otherwise. Slowly, he lowers the goblet to the table and smiles at me. His smile reeks of malice, something that I have come to expect.
"You know the punishment, Severus," he says simply.
"Yes." I lower my eyes. He makes me feel like the foolish schoolboy that he claimed, so long ago, that I was. "I do." I was hoping that he had forgotten about the punishment. It's been so long since I had the nerve to speak out against him.
"Well? I've no time for you to waffle about and feel sorry for yourself." He adjusts the position of his chair so that it is nearly touching mine. My leg brushes against his and I bite my lip. I hate my punishment; I always have.
"Yes," I growl, "I know you've no time to waste."
"Get to it, then." He folds his arms across his chest as I unfold mine and drop them to my lap. I take a deep breath and wonder if it were possible to spontaneously combust so that I wouldn't have to suffer another moment of this humiliation.
My head lolls forward and I close my eyes, wringing my hands nervously. I don't remember when I became so weak; I think I have always been weak for him. I submitted willingly to him when I was just a boy, because I thought that love was submission; I was forced to submit to him as a teenager, because I had to submit or be killed. I submit to him now, because he is the only person who doesn't pull away in disgust at my touch, and because he can still order my execution.
"Come now," he whispers, leaning forward to stare at me. "You know that things will only get worse for you if you delay." Lucius's steely eyes dart around the small room, looking for the waitress that he knows will never come to disturb us. He reaches his perfectly formed hand underneath the table, grasping my knee sharply. "And I've been in such good spirits all day."
Taking a deep breath, I unclasp my fingers. He's the harshest to me whenever he is in good spirits, and I am too broken down today to suffer his temper. He's a sadist in the truest sense of the word. He finds such pleasure in my pain and humiliation.
It's best, I've decided, to just get it over with. Pursing my lips, I shift slightly in my chair, glancing over my shoulder in my own paranoia to ensure that we will, as always, not be disturbed. My fingers twitch in anticipation, and I rub my palms together to warm my hands. They are always too cold, Lucius complains, and the last thing I need is his anger to be directed today at my perpetually cold fingers. I turn my hands over, looking intensely at my palms.
"Don't waste any more time," he growls lowly, snapping me out of my reverie.
"Yes, Lucius," I respond, cocking my head to look at him. I smile crookedly, knowing that the look will be much more of a sneer than anything else. I drop my hands back beneath the table, both of them falling on Lucius's closest knee, the one brushing my thigh. He flinches a bit as my hands touch him; I squeeze his knee harder than is typical.
Once I establish contact with his knee, I work my hands up the length of his thigh, stroking lightly over the thick fabric of his trousers, feeling the heat radiating from his body. He sighs in satisfaction when my fingertips barely brush the bulge forming between his legs. I feel my own body trying desperately to respond as well, but I force those thoughts back into my subconscious. Lucius does not want my pleasure; he is only concerned with his.
Without glancing down, I shift my position in my chair so that I can glide my hands up over his hips, fingers deftly meeting at the opening of his trousers. I hear him inhale ever so slightly as I gently tug the zipper down. Reaching my perpetually cold fingers inside of his trousers, I part the fabric so that his growing erection could be freed. Lucius exhales lowly, stiffening in his seat.
Slowly, I grip his cock with my hands and stroke, coaxing it to hardness. I hear him whimper slightly, a barely audible whine. I squeeze his erection lightly and run my fingers up its length, pausing to tease at the head. He moans again, biting at his lower lip to force his silence, and I begin to gain confidence.
As I work his cock with my fingers, squeezing and stroking at the hard flesh between my palms, I wonder who truly is being punished today. He forces me to bring him to orgasm, without pleasuring myself, in such a public place in order to humiliate me, the recluse that I am, but today, the humiliation shall be his. Lucius tries to hard to remain silent and composed while I fist his cock, but today shall be different. I want every last patron of this establishment to turn and gawk at dignified Mister Malfoy. I want him to become undone. My punishment shall be severe, but it may very well be worth it to turn the tables, so to speak.
"Lucius," I whisper, pausing my ministrations for a moment to move to the edge of my chair. His eyes widen in surprise as I lean in next to him, my lips positioned at his ear. "Do you remember the first time you fucked me?" I speak a bit louder than necessary, but no heads turn yet. "I was just barely sixteen, and we'd been drinking that vodka that your father had given you as a wedding gift." He inhales sharply; his marital indiscretions are a sensitive subject, even though all of his indiscretions were with me.
"Don't speak of this," Lucius whispers, though I don't take him seriously. It's hard to believe him whenever his eyes are closed, cheeks flushed pink. He doesn't want me to stop talking.
"Shan't," I retort, giving a quick squeeze to his cock before I begin stroking it again in earnest. "Tell me, do you remember bending me over that oak desk in your drawing room? I would hope that you haven't forgotten." I bite at his earlobe, then quickly lick a trail down his neck. I feel his skin warming beneath my mouth, and I can only imagine the exquisite expression on his face: horror mixed with lust.
I hold firmly to his cock with one hand while I work my other hand deeper into his trousers to stroke lazily over his balls. "I remember, if you've forgotten," I hiss into his neck, squeezing both of my hands lightly around him. "We had to do it quickly, before Narcissa came back from having tea with the LeStranges. I didn't mind, though, I wanted you inside of me so badly. We didn't even bother to undress, you just pulled my trousers down and fucked me. You knew that was how I wanted you, quick and dirty and hard."
His breathing speeds up, and I feel him trying his hardest to not lift his hips into my touch, to not begin thrusting into my hands to speed up his orgasm. I do not want his release to come quickly and silently, however, and I release him and instead push firmly on his hips. "Come now, your wine is getting warm. You should finish your drink, lest someone think you're not enjoying it," I say loudly. He gasps audibly and nods; he is lost within his own thoughts, but he still reaches forward for his wine, which he brings shakily to his lips.
"Good," I commend him, rewarding him with a swift series of strokes to his cock. He nearly chokes on his wine, and he scowls at me.
"Do you remember how much you enjoyed taking me then? How loud I screamed?" I nip at the flesh of his neck, and then soothe the mark with my tongue. "You weren't afraid of anyone tattling to Narcissa, though there were servants and house-elves crawling all over your mansion." He squirms in my hands, and I run my fist over his cock faster now. I want this to last as long as possible, but I don't think he will be able to wait much longer before he comes. "You flaunted the fact that you were fucking a Slytherin schoolboy, it was a source of pride for you, you bastard. You even told the Dark Lord that you were grooming me for his very special service, didn't you?"
My eyes narrow to angry slits, and I squeeze his cock a bit harder than he expected; Lucius yelps. "And now, I'm reduced to touching you underneath a table," I growl, "not even good enough to step foot into your home anymore." The speed of my hands increases, and he bites nervously on his lower lip, hands fiercely gripping the edges of the table.
"Severus," he says lowly, eyes opening to narrow slits, "you know I have my reasons." His voice is low and laboured, and he strains to choke out even those few words.
"And you know your reasons are pathetic," I shoot back. I run my thumb over the head of his cock, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "You know that you're just afraid of damaging your already tarnished reputation." I glance up into his eyes as my hands move furiously over his cock, sweat and pre-come helping to glide my hand along his length. "You know that you've enjoyed all the times that I've sucked you off, all the times that you've pounded into me."
"Please," he commands, "please stop." He thrusts his hips slightly up into my touch.
I simply regard him in silence; the only sound coming from our corner of the bistro is his ragged breathing and the quiet sound of skin rubbing against skin. "No," I say finally, leaning in close in front of him, my nose nearly touching his. "No, you don't deserve it."
Lucius shakes his head forlornly, pale blonde hair spilling over his shoulders. He opens his mouth to speak, but I silence him with my own lips. I capture his mouth violently with my own, tongue crashing against teeth, working into his mouth. I have not kissed him since I was twenty-one; he finds kissing distasteful and refuses to do so, especially in public. I draw one hand away from his lap and tangle it in his hair, pulling him into me. I feel his body stiffen defensively next to me, and he raises his hands to push against my body.
Regardless, I kiss him relentlessly; I nip at his tongue and his lower lip, and I furiously stroke his cock all the while. I kiss him until he complies, until he gives in, for he must give in. Slowly, as I am forcing my tongue into his mouth, as I am sliding my calloused hand over his cock, as I am carding his hair roughly through my fingers, I feel his body relax. I smile into the kiss before pulling away to whisper to his ear.
"Let go," I murmur as I squeeze his cock just the way he likes it. He arches his hips underneath my hand with a small yelp, and I know that he is on the edge, that I will make him come, that he will like it. Swiftly, my mouth latches onto his earlobe and I lick and nibble, smiling maliciously into the reddening skin. I hear his breath catch in his throat and he goes still, save for the thrusting of his hips. "Let go," I repeat, hissing into his ear, and he does.
With a groan, he pushes up into my hand one last time, and I draw back so as to watch his face, to see his expression, to know what he looks like when he loses control for even a fraction of a second. His head drops back and his eyelids shut tightly; he bites his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood so as to stifle the primal scream that I know he is dying to release. Lucius sucks in one last gasp of air before a very dignified shudder wracks his body; I feel my hand suddenly becoming warm and wet with his come. Smirking, I continue to stroke him until he is done, until he is spent.
Satisfied that he is finished, I release the grasp that I had on both his hair and his now-softening cock and pull my chair back in front of my still-untouched meal. I frown at the mess on my hand, and fumble inside my robe for my wand. Under my breath, I whisper a very simple cleaning spell, and all signs of our encounter are instantaneously erased. Lucius begins breathing again, slowly opening his eyes, seemingly in a daze. He inhales, presumably preparing some hideous punishment for my insolence.
Determining that I am already damned in his eyes, I tuck my wand back into my robes and clasp my hands together at my chest. "Well," I say with a mock sense of cheerfulness in my voice, sliding right back into the tradition that I had previously decided to blast to shreds, "I suppose that it's time for me to be going. I've got a stack of wretched Gryffindor essays to grade." I shrugged and pushed my chair back from the table, glancing at Lucius, who was still trying to find his bearings.
"Merry Christmas, Lucius," I say, clapping him briefly on the shoulder, a wicked smile playing upon my lips. "We shall have to get together more often." He nods in confusion as I gather my outer robes, leave a few Galleons on the table, and pivot to leave the bistro.
I do not look back.