|bewarethesmirk (bewarethesmirk) wrote,|
@ 2009-09-05 19:52:00
|Current music:||count of casuality - patrick wolf|
Fic: Scorpius Malfoy, Schemer Extraordinaire [Draco/Scorpius, NC-17]
hp_sas just unveiled the masterlist for the fest. :) I wrote Scorpius Malfoy,
Slut Schemer Extraordinaire for snarkyscorp. And my delightful fic, The Little Boy Complex (Harry/Scorpius, NC-17), was written by drippingcherry.
Reposting this now!
Title: Scorpius Malfoy,
Slut Schemer Extraordinaire
Age Disparity: (42/16)
Summary: “Close the door, Father. You wouldn’t want the house-elves to get the wrong idea, would you?”
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Incest, underage, coercion of a sort (some might see it as dub-con), cheap plot device, spanking, and a dirty in-your-face blow job.
Word Count: ~2,700
Author's Notes: Minimal plot, considerable filth. Written for snarkyscorp in this year's round of hp_sas. Thanks so much to Lindsay (lavillanueva) for the support and the beta, and to joanwilder for also betaing.
“The wine is excellent, Father,” Scorpius said, just a touch of a smirk on his lips. He had nearly drained his first glass. That was too bad, Draco thought, because Scorpius wasn’t about to get drunk on his watch.
“Of course it is.” Draco smiled against his own glass and took another sip of red, relishing the warm slide down his throat. Draco picked up his silverware and began the lazy process of twining pasta around the tines of his fork.
“So, Father—” Scorpius said, chewing. “Will you help me write my Potions essay tonight?” He even batted his eyelashes, and Draco glanced down at his food.
“I will not write your essay for you.”
“Did I say anything about you writing it?” Draco heard the clink of Scorpius’ glass against the table. “I just want your help. I thought you were some kind of Potions genius…but if age has addled your brain, I’m happy to do it on my own.”
“I do recall enough about OWL-level Potions, thanks.” Draco smiled a bit.
“All right, then. And if it turns out you’re lying, I’ll give you a lesson.” Draco looked up and rolled his eyes, but his son seemed unfazed as ever.
Scorpius’ grey eyes were bright, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, and he was just—well—staring, watching Draco carefully, as if waiting for something. But that was ridiculous. Draco wished he could explain his son’s behaviour, but if Draco had learned one thing, it was that Scorpius transcended explanation.
Once a month, Scorpius would spend a weekend at the Manor, and it was their ritual to share a meal on Saturday evening.
It was not ritual, though, for Scorpius to insist on helping the house-elves prepare dinner and set the table – but Draco took it in stride. Perhaps Scorpius had been caught in another hallway with his trousers down and was performing penance in hopes Draco would go easier on him when the inevitable owl arrived from Headmistress Sprout. Draco turned his thoughts away—a Hufflepuff, for Merlin’s sake.
“Are you enjoying dinner, Father?” Scorpius asked in a low voice, as if he were asking something else altogether.
Draco crossed his ankles under the table. “It’s acceptable,” he lied. It really was quite good, but his son didn’t need anything else stoking his gargantuan ego.
Scorpius chuckled. “I thought so,” he said, and he rose without excusing himself, with all the manners of those infidel Potter children. He headed for the door, throwing over his shoulder, “Enjoy your dinner, Father. I’ve got things to do. I’ll be in the study when you want me.”
It wasn’t the first time Scorpius had said something to Draco that hinted at a subliminal double meaning, if only Draco would reach beneath the surface. Draco did not. As usual, he brushed it off.
Tucking back into his dinner, Draco noticed that somewhere along the way Scorpius had finished his own wine, and the bottle was missing.