FIC: Darkness in the Light, 1/2 (Harry Potter, Lucius/Harry, NC-17)
Title: Darkness in the Light: Want/Need [1/2]
Author:darkrosetiger
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Lucius/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Semi-chan (16-year-old Harry/adult Lucius)
Summary: The opposite of hatred isn't love--it's fascination.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Lucius Malfoy are the sole property of J.K. Rowling; I'm only borrowing them.
Notes: Written before the release of Order of the Phoenix; may not conform to canon.
Everyone with any taste or discernment loved James Potter. Sirius Black exuded sexuality, it's true, with those eternal bedroom eyes and sultry mouth, but why fight over something anyone could have? Remus Lupin was more difficult game, and I would have found it amusing to deny Severus what he wanted most, but when I found out what he was I lost all desire to take him to my bed.
"Why? Because you thought he was a monster?" My lover rolls over onto his side, looking at me with green eyes that seem smaller and sharper without the barrier of his glasses. "I'd have thought that would make you perfect for each other."
My hand slides between us and closes around the slender column of his throat. "Careful, Potter. One of these days you'll push me too far."
He is Gryffindor's Heir, after all, so I don't expect him to show fear; certainly not when we have danced this dance together for the better part of a year. He smiles at me, the pink tip of his tongue resting against his teeth. "Of course I will. That's my job, Lucius."
I cover his lying honey-sweet mouth with my own, the only reliable way I've found to silence the brat. The green eyes widen for an instant then flutter partly closed. He never closes them completely when he is with me. Wise child. His skin is cool against me, and pale, but even so he seems more human than my own son, who has all over his mother's beauty and all of her coldness in equal measure. I wonder sometimes whether Draco is truly alive.
With Harry, I need not wonder. I can feel the heartbeat of the Boy Who Lived pounding against my chest and his fingers carding through my hair. I can hear the slight catch in his breath when I wrap my fingers around the hard length of him, needy and insistent as only a sixteen-year-old boy can be. His vibrancy is a source of endless fascination for me, product of the staid environs of Malfoy Manor that I am. It is different from James, even; something from his mudblood mother, perhaps, or the Muggles that raised him? Some sense of desperation borne of the ever-present shadow of their short, ordinary little lives that has combined with the power in his father's lineage to produce a wizard capable of making the Dark Lord himself tremble?
And Voldemort would destroy this rather than understanding it, or trying to tap it for himself. He always was a fool. For all of his near-immortality, he is more of a child than the boy in my bed: impatient, petulant, and demanding, just like the Muggle he is when you get right down to it. In his obsession with Harry Potter, he has lost sight of his goal, but I have not forgotten mine. I am a Malfoy, and ambition and hunger for power are bred into my line just as surely as the grey eyes and pale hair. I do not want to supplant Voldemort myself, of course--far better to be the power behind the throne, the grand vizier whispering to the emperor from the shadows. My family learned that lesson centuries ago, when William repaid our open support and aid for his conquest of England by offering up his closest friend as a sacrifice to the carrion birds of the Church. Our name is not a pejorative--it is a reminder, and a warning.
I am yanked back to the present by my lover thrusting his hips against my hand. I smile at him indulgently, even as I stop touching him. It will be so easy to shape him, and mold him to my purpose, since I know what he wants. After all, it matters little to me which Dark Lord I serve.
He pouts, an endearing expression on him, but one to which I have become immune. I move in close, until my lips are barely touching the curve of his ear, and whisper, "What do you want, Mr. Potter?"
The pout becomes a scowl. "You know, so why do you bother to ask? I want you to fuck me." The obscenity falls awkwardly from his lips, as if he expects to be reprimanded for his language. I trace the lightning-bolt scar, the physical manifestation of his power, with one finger.
"Yes, I know. And you know that you have to ask me properly before you'll get it, don't you?"
"You enjoy humiliating me like this, don't you?
"Of course," I tell him in my most reasonable tone of voice. "Why else would I do it?"
The scowl deepens fractionally; then the green eyes melt and he arches into me, rubbing against me like a cat. "Please, Lucius." His voice is a sultry purr, with just a hint of a growl. "Please. I want you to fuck me hard. I need to feel you inside me. I haven't been able to think of anything else for weeks, since the last time."
That last may actually be the truth. He was hardly a virgin when he first came to me, not with that practiced mouth and knowing hands, but I am sure that his other lovers--that irritating mudblood girl, or perhaps one or two of Arthur Weasley's collection of red-haired urchins--expected him to take the lead. I alone do not treat him like a fragile glass ornament to be handled carefully lest he break. For that is exactly what I want: to shatter the shimmering porcelain shell so that I can expose the darkness underneath.
"On your back," I command, and he complies quickly. Normally I would tease him, playing with him before deigning to grant his wish, but his need is contagious. I content myself with the simple gesture of cupping his face in my hand and letting my fingers play down over his still nearly-hairless chest to tweak a dark rose nipple. He gasps and squirms, utterly delectable. I want to claim him, to laugh in the faces of those two old men, that I have stolen their prize while they squabbled.
The boy makes a sound so soft I can barely hear it when I enter him with neither warning nor preparation beyond spreading some of my own fluids over myself. This is the least pleasant aspect for me, when the subtle manipulation of desire becomes a thing of sweat and stickiness and animal heat. I do understand why Narcissa has so little interest in it; for me, it is worse because despite myself, my body craves it, especially from this creature beneath me.
I don't have to bother being gentle; that's not why he comes to me. He is hot and tight around me, as Severus was long ago, as I must have been for someone whose name and face I can no longer remember. When he starts to squirm, I reach down and grab his thin wrists, pinning him to the bed. "Do you want me to stop?" I ask, my voice quiet.
This is the true climax of this battle of wills. I can almost hear him thinking and weighing the possibilities. How badly does he want what only I can give him? If he tells me to stop, will I? I'm not certain of either. After an eternal moment he glances away and whispers, the barest aspiration of breath, "No. Don't stop."
His eyes are nearly closed, only a sliver of green showing beneath lashes that are a dark bruise against his skin. As always I am half-tempted to strike him, to see the print of my hand on his face, or shallow lines of blood in the wake of my fingernails; to mar his near-perfection by leaving my own mark as surely as Voldemort left his. My breath quickens and I tighten my hands around his wrists almost hard enough to break them, trying desperately to hang onto the last vestiges of self-control, even while I know it is futile. His lips curl up in a smile as I slam into him one last time and climax. He recognizes his victory, and revels in it.
Harry is not the only one of us that needs and wants what he should not have.
Author:darkrosetiger
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Lucius/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Semi-chan (16-year-old Harry/adult Lucius)
Summary: The opposite of hatred isn't love--it's fascination.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Lucius Malfoy are the sole property of J.K. Rowling; I'm only borrowing them.
Notes: Written before the release of Order of the Phoenix; may not conform to canon.
Everyone with any taste or discernment loved James Potter. Sirius Black exuded sexuality, it's true, with those eternal bedroom eyes and sultry mouth, but why fight over something anyone could have? Remus Lupin was more difficult game, and I would have found it amusing to deny Severus what he wanted most, but when I found out what he was I lost all desire to take him to my bed.
"Why? Because you thought he was a monster?" My lover rolls over onto his side, looking at me with green eyes that seem smaller and sharper without the barrier of his glasses. "I'd have thought that would make you perfect for each other."
My hand slides between us and closes around the slender column of his throat. "Careful, Potter. One of these days you'll push me too far."
He is Gryffindor's Heir, after all, so I don't expect him to show fear; certainly not when we have danced this dance together for the better part of a year. He smiles at me, the pink tip of his tongue resting against his teeth. "Of course I will. That's my job, Lucius."
I cover his lying honey-sweet mouth with my own, the only reliable way I've found to silence the brat. The green eyes widen for an instant then flutter partly closed. He never closes them completely when he is with me. Wise child. His skin is cool against me, and pale, but even so he seems more human than my own son, who has all over his mother's beauty and all of her coldness in equal measure. I wonder sometimes whether Draco is truly alive.
With Harry, I need not wonder. I can feel the heartbeat of the Boy Who Lived pounding against my chest and his fingers carding through my hair. I can hear the slight catch in his breath when I wrap my fingers around the hard length of him, needy and insistent as only a sixteen-year-old boy can be. His vibrancy is a source of endless fascination for me, product of the staid environs of Malfoy Manor that I am. It is different from James, even; something from his mudblood mother, perhaps, or the Muggles that raised him? Some sense of desperation borne of the ever-present shadow of their short, ordinary little lives that has combined with the power in his father's lineage to produce a wizard capable of making the Dark Lord himself tremble?
And Voldemort would destroy this rather than understanding it, or trying to tap it for himself. He always was a fool. For all of his near-immortality, he is more of a child than the boy in my bed: impatient, petulant, and demanding, just like the Muggle he is when you get right down to it. In his obsession with Harry Potter, he has lost sight of his goal, but I have not forgotten mine. I am a Malfoy, and ambition and hunger for power are bred into my line just as surely as the grey eyes and pale hair. I do not want to supplant Voldemort myself, of course--far better to be the power behind the throne, the grand vizier whispering to the emperor from the shadows. My family learned that lesson centuries ago, when William repaid our open support and aid for his conquest of England by offering up his closest friend as a sacrifice to the carrion birds of the Church. Our name is not a pejorative--it is a reminder, and a warning.
I am yanked back to the present by my lover thrusting his hips against my hand. I smile at him indulgently, even as I stop touching him. It will be so easy to shape him, and mold him to my purpose, since I know what he wants. After all, it matters little to me which Dark Lord I serve.
He pouts, an endearing expression on him, but one to which I have become immune. I move in close, until my lips are barely touching the curve of his ear, and whisper, "What do you want, Mr. Potter?"
The pout becomes a scowl. "You know, so why do you bother to ask? I want you to fuck me." The obscenity falls awkwardly from his lips, as if he expects to be reprimanded for his language. I trace the lightning-bolt scar, the physical manifestation of his power, with one finger.
"Yes, I know. And you know that you have to ask me properly before you'll get it, don't you?"
"You enjoy humiliating me like this, don't you?
"Of course," I tell him in my most reasonable tone of voice. "Why else would I do it?"
The scowl deepens fractionally; then the green eyes melt and he arches into me, rubbing against me like a cat. "Please, Lucius." His voice is a sultry purr, with just a hint of a growl. "Please. I want you to fuck me hard. I need to feel you inside me. I haven't been able to think of anything else for weeks, since the last time."
That last may actually be the truth. He was hardly a virgin when he first came to me, not with that practiced mouth and knowing hands, but I am sure that his other lovers--that irritating mudblood girl, or perhaps one or two of Arthur Weasley's collection of red-haired urchins--expected him to take the lead. I alone do not treat him like a fragile glass ornament to be handled carefully lest he break. For that is exactly what I want: to shatter the shimmering porcelain shell so that I can expose the darkness underneath.
"On your back," I command, and he complies quickly. Normally I would tease him, playing with him before deigning to grant his wish, but his need is contagious. I content myself with the simple gesture of cupping his face in my hand and letting my fingers play down over his still nearly-hairless chest to tweak a dark rose nipple. He gasps and squirms, utterly delectable. I want to claim him, to laugh in the faces of those two old men, that I have stolen their prize while they squabbled.
The boy makes a sound so soft I can barely hear it when I enter him with neither warning nor preparation beyond spreading some of my own fluids over myself. This is the least pleasant aspect for me, when the subtle manipulation of desire becomes a thing of sweat and stickiness and animal heat. I do understand why Narcissa has so little interest in it; for me, it is worse because despite myself, my body craves it, especially from this creature beneath me.
I don't have to bother being gentle; that's not why he comes to me. He is hot and tight around me, as Severus was long ago, as I must have been for someone whose name and face I can no longer remember. When he starts to squirm, I reach down and grab his thin wrists, pinning him to the bed. "Do you want me to stop?" I ask, my voice quiet.
This is the true climax of this battle of wills. I can almost hear him thinking and weighing the possibilities. How badly does he want what only I can give him? If he tells me to stop, will I? I'm not certain of either. After an eternal moment he glances away and whispers, the barest aspiration of breath, "No. Don't stop."
His eyes are nearly closed, only a sliver of green showing beneath lashes that are a dark bruise against his skin. As always I am half-tempted to strike him, to see the print of my hand on his face, or shallow lines of blood in the wake of my fingernails; to mar his near-perfection by leaving my own mark as surely as Voldemort left his. My breath quickens and I tighten my hands around his wrists almost hard enough to break them, trying desperately to hang onto the last vestiges of self-control, even while I know it is futile. His lips curl up in a smile as I slam into him one last time and climax. He recognizes his victory, and revels in it.
Harry is not the only one of us that needs and wants what he should not have.