Title: Broken Hallelujah
Author: Anath de Malfoy
Pairing: Lucius/Moody
Summary: Lucius doesn't know that Alastor already has an idea of what's being kept secret from him...
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: M/M slash, light BDSM, probably AU
Possible Spoilers: Books 1-5
Disclaimer: All characters and profits belong to J.K. Rowling. Any smut herein is my responsibility and pleasure.
A/N: A sequel to "No Way To Say Goodbye". (thanks to "Jxx" for suggesting this!) It's from Moody's POV this time.
"You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah"
- from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen
In many eyes, my love, you are the worst of sinners. A sensuous blond demon, seducing all before you with your form, your eyes, your wealth and power. Great rulers would fall naked to their knees to gain possession of you; for one night of your love they would gladly consign their immortal souls to Hell. Yet when you speak my name it sound holy upon your lips, a sacrament fit for the angels. Your touch on my vulnerable skin is always blessed; our first kiss was a marriage vow, and the first time you spread your luscious tightness open for me and begged for me inside you was the consummation of a union and an ecstasy beyond the nuptial nights of common mortals. And last night when I bent before you, stripped and aching, feeling your whole hand moving within me and claiming everything I am and was and ever will be, I knew that we were more wedded to each other than you will ever be to that haughty young slip of a girl the world knows as your wife.
Even your name seems bright, angelic, far above the mediocrity of life in either realm, wizarding or Muggle. When I whisper it I feel I have uttered the name of a god, an incantation that carries the feel and fragrance of your silver-blond hair, softer than summer clouds and warm as sunlight on the ocean, towards my yearning, needing senses.
You are more perfectly beautiful than any man created, and yet it is not merely the loveliness of your form that enchants me. It is everything about you - your passion, your strength, your appetite for life and all its wonders. You have a vision beyond the ordinary; ambition unparalleled, pride unfettered, and the determination to bring your desires to life. Even at the times we disagree, my fair elitist, my challenging aristocrat, I am in awe of your persuasiveness. My love, you find pleasure and beauty in places where lesser men would never think to look. I am ageing and battle-scarred, and yet you stroke my grizzled hair with admiration, and kiss the old wounds on my body as if you found them pleasing. That never fails to melt me almost to the point of tears.
As I wake, I see you by the nightstand, eyes wet and a sob torn freshly from your throat. An air of sorrow and desperation clings to your usually proud stature, and my instinct as an Auror and a lover tells me what disturbs your thoughts without me having to ask it of you. I frown, my heart suddenly leaden, sinking, but raise my arms towards you, calling you to my embrace.
Of course, this Voldemort, this madman who styles himself the Dark Lord, would have brought you into his following. From what I know of him, he has a fanatical belief in the superiority of pure wizarding blood, and a scorn bordering on loathing for the Muggle-born, as do you, my fallen angel. And with such desirability as you possess, beloved, it would neither surprise nor shock me (although it would grieve me to the bitterest of tears and boil my blood with jealousy) if he has already made you his concubine. Rumour has it that this so-called Lord beds many of his followers - the finest and the fairest of the pure-bloods, women, men and even children, are all subject to his depravity and lust.
As you sink back into bed, into my arms, my kiss, my caresses, I silently pray that you will not speak of him to me. For you know as surely as I do myself that if you were to confess your allegiance to my enemy, our love would have to die. I would respect your honesty for confessing this most heinous of sins, but there could be no forgiveness, no reconciliation. Although it would destroy my heart, my faith, and almost everything meaningful in life for me, I would forsake you, Lucius. I could never join his ranks, and I know that you would never risk his wrath by deserting him for me. All that would be left for us would be to part as foes, or to kill each other then and there. Perhaps the latter would be best, my love - remaining alive without our passion, without the merging of our two souls into one every time we open to each other, would be a Hell on earth, a living death.
Moaning my name, clutching at the bedclothes with white-knuckled fingers, you allow me to turn and spread you wide, whimpering as I run my tongue along your cleft, tasting the salt sweetness and perfection of your vulnerability, wetting your opening lightly; a precursor to the more abundant flow of lubrication that will later follow when you crave my hardness filling your vulnerability once again. One of us within the other, our boundaries of self being blurred each time, that is the glory that we hunger for with each drawn breath.
As long as you do not name him in my presence, my angel cast from Heaven. As long as I have your silence, and the illusion that your flesh and spirit are first and foremost mine.
~ Fin.
Author: Anath de Malfoy
Pairing: Lucius/Moody
Summary: Lucius doesn't know that Alastor already has an idea of what's being kept secret from him...
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: M/M slash, light BDSM, probably AU
Possible Spoilers: Books 1-5
Disclaimer: All characters and profits belong to J.K. Rowling. Any smut herein is my responsibility and pleasure.
A/N: A sequel to "No Way To Say Goodbye". (thanks to "Jxx" for suggesting this!) It's from Moody's POV this time.
"You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah"
- from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen
In many eyes, my love, you are the worst of sinners. A sensuous blond demon, seducing all before you with your form, your eyes, your wealth and power. Great rulers would fall naked to their knees to gain possession of you; for one night of your love they would gladly consign their immortal souls to Hell. Yet when you speak my name it sound holy upon your lips, a sacrament fit for the angels. Your touch on my vulnerable skin is always blessed; our first kiss was a marriage vow, and the first time you spread your luscious tightness open for me and begged for me inside you was the consummation of a union and an ecstasy beyond the nuptial nights of common mortals. And last night when I bent before you, stripped and aching, feeling your whole hand moving within me and claiming everything I am and was and ever will be, I knew that we were more wedded to each other than you will ever be to that haughty young slip of a girl the world knows as your wife.
Even your name seems bright, angelic, far above the mediocrity of life in either realm, wizarding or Muggle. When I whisper it I feel I have uttered the name of a god, an incantation that carries the feel and fragrance of your silver-blond hair, softer than summer clouds and warm as sunlight on the ocean, towards my yearning, needing senses.
You are more perfectly beautiful than any man created, and yet it is not merely the loveliness of your form that enchants me. It is everything about you - your passion, your strength, your appetite for life and all its wonders. You have a vision beyond the ordinary; ambition unparalleled, pride unfettered, and the determination to bring your desires to life. Even at the times we disagree, my fair elitist, my challenging aristocrat, I am in awe of your persuasiveness. My love, you find pleasure and beauty in places where lesser men would never think to look. I am ageing and battle-scarred, and yet you stroke my grizzled hair with admiration, and kiss the old wounds on my body as if you found them pleasing. That never fails to melt me almost to the point of tears.
As I wake, I see you by the nightstand, eyes wet and a sob torn freshly from your throat. An air of sorrow and desperation clings to your usually proud stature, and my instinct as an Auror and a lover tells me what disturbs your thoughts without me having to ask it of you. I frown, my heart suddenly leaden, sinking, but raise my arms towards you, calling you to my embrace.
Of course, this Voldemort, this madman who styles himself the Dark Lord, would have brought you into his following. From what I know of him, he has a fanatical belief in the superiority of pure wizarding blood, and a scorn bordering on loathing for the Muggle-born, as do you, my fallen angel. And with such desirability as you possess, beloved, it would neither surprise nor shock me (although it would grieve me to the bitterest of tears and boil my blood with jealousy) if he has already made you his concubine. Rumour has it that this so-called Lord beds many of his followers - the finest and the fairest of the pure-bloods, women, men and even children, are all subject to his depravity and lust.
As you sink back into bed, into my arms, my kiss, my caresses, I silently pray that you will not speak of him to me. For you know as surely as I do myself that if you were to confess your allegiance to my enemy, our love would have to die. I would respect your honesty for confessing this most heinous of sins, but there could be no forgiveness, no reconciliation. Although it would destroy my heart, my faith, and almost everything meaningful in life for me, I would forsake you, Lucius. I could never join his ranks, and I know that you would never risk his wrath by deserting him for me. All that would be left for us would be to part as foes, or to kill each other then and there. Perhaps the latter would be best, my love - remaining alive without our passion, without the merging of our two souls into one every time we open to each other, would be a Hell on earth, a living death.
Moaning my name, clutching at the bedclothes with white-knuckled fingers, you allow me to turn and spread you wide, whimpering as I run my tongue along your cleft, tasting the salt sweetness and perfection of your vulnerability, wetting your opening lightly; a precursor to the more abundant flow of lubrication that will later follow when you crave my hardness filling your vulnerability once again. One of us within the other, our boundaries of self being blurred each time, that is the glory that we hunger for with each drawn breath.
As long as you do not name him in my presence, my angel cast from Heaven. As long as I have your silence, and the illusion that your flesh and spirit are first and foremost mine.
~ Fin.