A quick break from Fact and Mystery, the third chapter of which will be up… well, probably tomorrow, as I'm attempting to hit 5k words for the chapter. This was written ages ago, and finally edited and beta'ed. Started out as a 200 word drabble.
Blinded by Reflections
By: Aya
Rating: R ( M ), for sexual content.
Pairings: Draco/Lucius
Warnings: INCEST! Also, strong sexual content. NO SPOILERS.
Summary: Perfection is in the eye of the beholder, and beauty is an addiction.
Hatred is blind, as well as love.
- Thomas Fuller
The prefect's bathroom at Hogwarts is, by far, the best one in the school. Large tub, fluffy robes and, Draco's favorite, full-length mirrors.
The other prefects think he's obsessed with his reflection. They're right, of course. Who wouldn't be, though, if he looked like this? Blond hair, elegant cheekbones, pale skin, glowing eyes, perfect white teeth, a body to kill for... he's perfection, completely and totally, and the rest of the school is blind not to see it. And his most perfect feature, his cock, long and perfect like the rest of him. He loves to watch it harden as he wraps a manicured hand around it, strokes to his own reflection in the mirror, watches that pale white skin flush. He comes, no longer able to pull his gaze away from the God before him, and slumps against the cool metal, wishes he could reach out and touch his reflection as he touches himself, to fuck it and be fucked.
Because perfection should only be shared with perfection, and who is more perfect, more beautiful, than he?
He is almost disappointed to go home, to leave the mirrors of the school for three months. But he will not be disappointed, he senses, and looks forward to the mirrors at home, wonders if they, too, will show his perfection and love it as he does.
Lucius Malfoy loves nothing more than to watch things of beauty. There is a depressingly small amount of perfection in this world, so he finds himself more and more obsessed with those things that are beautiful, those things that are so captivating, so flawless, that they take his breath away with each glance.
His reflection is one of these things.
His son, home for summer and seventeen years old, is the other.
He knows that Draco is aware of this perfection, that his heir has developed the cultured taste for beauty. More than once he has heard his young son's admiration of himself, so much like him that he aches to touch and possess. He has seen the mirror, over two meters tall and set in a golden frame worthy of the unblemished image it reflects, and heard the voices and moans of appreciation that originate from the position before it. He has watched, on occasion, through the crack in the door as the perfect body, clothed in nothing but the silver light that causes his flawless skin to glow, becomes covered in a light pink flush. He has watched as that muscled arm moves, as his hand pumps and neck arches back, eyes closed. He has listened as Draco's moans of relief fill the quiet air along with the humid scent of sex, as he whispers under his breath, Yes. So perfect, so beautiful. Want to reach out and touch you. And the replying voice of the mirror, just as low, just as husky with lust, begging. Please, now, always. And he has seen one pale hand wrapped around that perfect cock, the other with fingers spread across the silver glass, seeking something it cannot grasp.
One night, the temptation overwhelms him and he enters into the forbidden territory. It's wrong, he knows, but the rightness of it all, the feeling of completion as he joins Draco, as he slides behind the lithe body to stare at the two of them in the mirror, tells him otherwise. The image that forms in the mirror draws him in; the sight of the two of them, so alike each other, blinding in their perfection, is almost too much. Almost.
He feels the urge to look away before the beauty overwhelms him, but can't bring himself to do so. He sees tears form in the gray eyes in the mirror, knows they're reflected in the nymph in his arms, and realizes that Draco, too, sees and understands that perfection together is greater than perfection in halves.
Lucius moves before the perfection can be ruined with salty trails down pale cheeks and perfect cheekbones. His hand covers the slightly smaller one around Draco's straining cock and he cannot help but smile as Draco bucks into his grip. The other hand moves in practiced gestures to unfasten the clasp of his cloak and slip the buttons of his shirt and trousers from their holes. He is undressed with the ease and quickness of one who has practiced doing so many times before, and moves until his hip presses against its perfect twin, mimicking his right hand with his left as he takes his own arousal into his palm.
They are more beautiful together than anything Lucius has ever seen. Even the dark blemish on his forearm cannot ruin the picture they create, and his eyes are drawn away from the mark to meet Draco's in the mirror. Draco's reflection is moving as if it has a will of its own, and the hand that Lucius is not covering moves to circle and pinch his own nipples.
Lucius makes a mental note to obtain more full-length mirrors before the wave of pleasure hits him and he realises that Draco has turned and his fingers are now flickering over his father's chest. The reflection of his son nearing his climax brings Lucius closer to his own. Gray eyes pull from the reflection and connect with eyes only a shade darker.
They come almost simultaneously. Draco once more reaches out to the mirror, his reflection doing the same, hands laying flat against each other. Lucius hesitates, stares at his other self staring at him, and does not touch, afraid that he may be overcome by the perfect being before him, trapped in the image.
They are cleaning up, fingers brushing over faultless skin, arousing and calming and collecting come which is licked off by perfect red tongues, when the door opens. Imperfection enters, tears the beauty of the moment to shreds with one step, and Lucius hears the sharp crack as the mirror shatters in its frame. Narcissa, never capable of obtaining Malfoy perfection, stares at them with eyes that will never understand beauty the way they do.
Lucius Malfoy has no idea what he has done, has no idea that he is like Narcissus, enraptured by his own beauty, Draco's beauty, the beauty of them together. He never slips out of his rapture long enough to understand that the world around him stares with eyes full of disgust. Neither he nor his son sees how ugly they are to those around them. He has no idea that his obsession will cause his doom, his death, their deaths, years from now. It never crosses Lucius' mind as he brushes his hair before his own mirror and fastens it with the snake clasp. He is too busy contemplating perfection to care about such things.