"The court fell silent", Lucius/Regulus, Rated R.
Title: The court fell silent
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Lucius/Regulus
Rating: R
Summary: Before he can rise and be embraced as one of them, he must fall.
Warnings: Breathplay, D/S, branding.
AN: Written for Moltensulfur in the HPDE_Smutathon. The title is taken from the Anne Sexton poem, Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty). Thanks to Kethlenda for the beat :)
The court fell silent
“What are we doing here?” Regulus doesn’t really want to ask, but he can’t help himself.
“Why, dear boy, why do you think we’re here?” Lucius Malfoy smiles his barbed-wire smile at him, curve of lip slicing up into that fair, perfect face. “You wish to be one of us, do you not?”
Regulus looks around at the dark walls lit by softly glowing torches. The floor beneath his feet is slick with condensation; it takes all of his skill not to slip and sprawl ingloriously at Malfoy’s feet.
No, there’s not…no. There’s no dark thrill to that thought, not at all. Don’t let him know that you think of it, at night, beneath tangled sheets.
Malfoy is no legilimens, but there’s a gleam in those crystalline eyes Regulus doesn’t like. “To do that, I have to stand in a dungeon and converse with you?” Regulus’ voice is full of bravado, most of it false, covering a deeper terror. He doesn’t like dark spaces, closed in caverns. The walls around him sigh with shadows and gleam slickly green, and he shudders.
“You have to do as I say, Regulus,” Malfoy says gently, and he’s moved around him, his fingers resting on Regulus’ shoulders for just a moment. It’s enough to feel like a brand on his skin through the rough material of his robes. “If I want you on your knees before me, you’ll do it, won’t you?” He leans forward and murmurs softly against Regulus’ neck. “That is what you promise, is it not? Obedience?”
Regulus shivers as he feels Lucius’ breath ghost gently across his skin. As Lucius leans down, tendrils of his pale hair fall over Regulus’ shoulders, lying white as death-lilies on the black wool.
“I have promised my obedience to the Dark Lord,” Regulus whispers, but he cannot find breath to speak louder. The cold of the chamber is seeping into his skin, into his very being; or maybe he thinks this because Lucius is so warm and solid and dry that everything else feels so arctic and frightening.
“I am his envoy, Regulus. His servant. On my skin is marked his brand. Do you wish your skin so marked?” Lucius’ words are oddly formal, like they belong in some secret society rite, the kind favored by the rich and the dissolute.
Maybe that’s all there is to it, after all. A playboy society for those of us for whom the notion of working for a living is a curse more terrifying than the Cruciatus.
Lucius’ hands are rubbing his shoulders, gently at first, soothing. “I want you to answer me, Regulus. Do you wish for his mark, or not?”
“Yes,” Regulus breathes, a benediction, and he hears the whisper of his promise echoed a thousand-fold in the cavernous darkness surrounding him. “I want it.”
“Do you?” Lucius is pressed up against him, and his mouth is traveling up Regulus’ throat in a lazy pattern; all flesh-warmed lips and eager breath.
“Oh, yes,” Regulus moans, and he hears it echoed in the cavern as if the darkness is mocking him. But he doesn’t care, because he can feel Lucius, hard and pressed against him, and he wants- “Please…”
“Shhh, now. No more speaking unless I ask, though you do beg so prettily.” Lucius chuckles and the cavern laughs with him. His hands, covered by dark leather gloves, move down Regulus’ chest in easy, soothing circles. Nimble fingers dance like acrobats and release the clasps of Regulus’ robes, pooling them at his feet.
Regulus shivers; the air rushes in to take him prisoner with its cold bite, and he wishes he could press back against Lucius’ warmth. He feels leather on his neck and has to fight back a moan; it is delicious and captivating, the smooth slide of leather on flesh, and the fingers around his neck tighten like ribbons pulled taut.
Regulus bows his head immediately, sighing.
“Good…good boy.” Lucius leans down and bites his neck, sinking sharp teeth into chilled flesh. Regulus bites his own lip to keep from crying out; the pain is like candy edged with needles, sliding sweet and sharp down his spine while splashes of red light spark behind his eyes.
Lucius presses his tongue to the indention left from his teeth, and Regulus feels a hand sliding down over his trousers, where’s he’s hard and aching, rubbing gently. “If you’re worthy, Regulus, I shall let you come. And then you shall be marked. Would you like that, dear boy? Pain such as you’ve never felt, right on the heels of pleasure? You may answer me.”
He wants to answer but oh, it’s so hard to do that, with his breath captive and strangled by desire in his throat. “Y-yes,” he manages, choking out the word, like it’s been pulled from his very soul and thrown at Lucius’ feet, lying naked and gleaming on the floor between them.
“I thought that you might,” Lucius murmurs, and his hand is sliding beneath Regulus’ trousers, black leather rubbing sensually over Regulus’ stomach. “We ask for your loyalty, Regulus. Unquestionable.”
The hand is teasing downwards in slow strokes; Regulus feels leather brush over the head of his cock and sways on his feet. The hand at his neck tightens further; Lucius’ pale hair is all around him, the scent in his mouth and the strands a silver curtain over his eyes.
He is captive to Malfoy’s hands and his sinister voice; it thrums against him like a drum, reverberating in all the secret places of his body that he wishes Lucius would touch. Malfoy’s long fingers wrap slowly, teasingly, around his cock.
The pulse of Regulus’ blood is slow and sure, and the noise in his ear is deafening like the tide washing out a beach during a storm. Lucius squeezes his neck harder, mimicking his torturous caresses on his cock, and Regulus feels his breathing slow as the world begins to fade. “You would die, for our Lord? You would lay your life at his feet and meet darkness as he commands?”
It is hard to hear the words, between the terror and the pleasure swirling thick like honey in his veins, but Regulus manages to nod. It’s taken all his effort, his very being is in Lucius’ thrall just as his body is held completely still in Lucius’ beautifully cruel hands.
The pressure builds at the base of his spine; warmth curls low in his belly as his vision begins to fade. The sharp lines of the cavern blur together into a light green whirl broken by shards of white; Lucius’ hair, still in his eyes, and it’s all beautiful kaleidoscope of colors and he’s warm now, yes, warm, and-
“Give us everything, Regulus. Life. Death.” Lucius bites his neck again, and Regulus feels the fingers pressing in inexorably at the pulse on his neck, and the hand is stroking him hard and sure and fast, and with a cry borne of both lust and terror and everything that he is…
Regulus comes just as Malfoy releases the hold on his neck, and the pleasure-pain-terror of it sends him to his knees, right at Malfoy’s feet, gasping. The shadows reached out to embrace him, and Regulus opens his eyes and his mouth and lets the darkness in to drown him.
* * *
“Regulus.”
The voice sounds like a thousand snakes hissing in some demented chorus, and when Regulus opens his eyes he sees two spots of crimson shining demonically in the darkness.
Have I died, then?
“No, Regulus. Not dead. You shall never die.” The voice rings like a bell in the chamber; resounding and loud, tinged with the sparkle of pure fanaticism. “Rise, and approach me.”
He does; his trousers are undone and he is sticky, and it is hard to walk. His body feels languid, limp; he feels like the water sliding eternally down the stone walls of the cavern. Still, he approaches that black-shrouded figure, standing still before him with red eyes like hellfire trained on Regulus’ every cautious move.
All around him, Regulus feels eyes, like a million peacocks lined up in a row and flashing their brilliant plumes. He looks; they are there, the Dark Lord’s chosen, robed in black with faces covered by bleached white bone.
He does not know which one is Lucius. His body is shivering with the aftermath of his capitulation; he wants someone to embrace him, to hold him. He turns wide eyes to the Dark Lord, who waiting with wand outstretched.
“Be one of us, Regulus, and triumph over death.”
Regulus feels the cold crawl of the Dark Lord’s fingers on his shirt, pushing it up to expose the skin beneath. They are not like Lucius’ fingers at all; the Dark Lord pulses with the same frigid cold as the cavern, his fingers are icicles tipped by glassy nails.
The pain of the Mark burned into his flesh is worse than anything, better than everything. The Dark Lord draws the pattern slowly, teasingly, as if time has stopped and he has all eternity to mark Regulus with his chosen symbol.
“I do, Regulus. I have all of eternity. And so too shall you.”
The pain of it breaks him at last, just as it was intended to do. He’s sick and sobbing, curling into himself on the hard stone floor. He smells burned flesh and hair and tries not to retch. Still, there is a part of him that revels in the pain, that takes it all in like sustenance too long denied.
He gorges on the pain as he did on the pleasure. A starving man, naked and weak, unresisting his lord’s pleasure.
A moment later he feels hands on him, hears the whispered murmur of voices all around him. They urge him to rise once more--reborn, be reborn--and his body is draped with a new black robe.
Lucius Malfoy presses his mask into his hand. Regulus affixes it to his face and moves back into the circle, a part of them. He is embraced by his fellow Death Eaters, he is whole. On his arm, his Mark hums happily, and in his mind, he feels the Dark Lord purr.
It is enough.
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Lucius/Regulus
Rating: R
Summary: Before he can rise and be embraced as one of them, he must fall.
Warnings: Breathplay, D/S, branding.
AN: Written for Moltensulfur in the HPDE_Smutathon. The title is taken from the Anne Sexton poem, Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty). Thanks to Kethlenda for the beat :)
The court fell silent
“What are we doing here?” Regulus doesn’t really want to ask, but he can’t help himself.
“Why, dear boy, why do you think we’re here?” Lucius Malfoy smiles his barbed-wire smile at him, curve of lip slicing up into that fair, perfect face. “You wish to be one of us, do you not?”
Regulus looks around at the dark walls lit by softly glowing torches. The floor beneath his feet is slick with condensation; it takes all of his skill not to slip and sprawl ingloriously at Malfoy’s feet.
No, there’s not…no. There’s no dark thrill to that thought, not at all. Don’t let him know that you think of it, at night, beneath tangled sheets.
Malfoy is no legilimens, but there’s a gleam in those crystalline eyes Regulus doesn’t like. “To do that, I have to stand in a dungeon and converse with you?” Regulus’ voice is full of bravado, most of it false, covering a deeper terror. He doesn’t like dark spaces, closed in caverns. The walls around him sigh with shadows and gleam slickly green, and he shudders.
“You have to do as I say, Regulus,” Malfoy says gently, and he’s moved around him, his fingers resting on Regulus’ shoulders for just a moment. It’s enough to feel like a brand on his skin through the rough material of his robes. “If I want you on your knees before me, you’ll do it, won’t you?” He leans forward and murmurs softly against Regulus’ neck. “That is what you promise, is it not? Obedience?”
Regulus shivers as he feels Lucius’ breath ghost gently across his skin. As Lucius leans down, tendrils of his pale hair fall over Regulus’ shoulders, lying white as death-lilies on the black wool.
“I have promised my obedience to the Dark Lord,” Regulus whispers, but he cannot find breath to speak louder. The cold of the chamber is seeping into his skin, into his very being; or maybe he thinks this because Lucius is so warm and solid and dry that everything else feels so arctic and frightening.
“I am his envoy, Regulus. His servant. On my skin is marked his brand. Do you wish your skin so marked?” Lucius’ words are oddly formal, like they belong in some secret society rite, the kind favored by the rich and the dissolute.
Maybe that’s all there is to it, after all. A playboy society for those of us for whom the notion of working for a living is a curse more terrifying than the Cruciatus.
Lucius’ hands are rubbing his shoulders, gently at first, soothing. “I want you to answer me, Regulus. Do you wish for his mark, or not?”
“Yes,” Regulus breathes, a benediction, and he hears the whisper of his promise echoed a thousand-fold in the cavernous darkness surrounding him. “I want it.”
“Do you?” Lucius is pressed up against him, and his mouth is traveling up Regulus’ throat in a lazy pattern; all flesh-warmed lips and eager breath.
“Oh, yes,” Regulus moans, and he hears it echoed in the cavern as if the darkness is mocking him. But he doesn’t care, because he can feel Lucius, hard and pressed against him, and he wants- “Please…”
“Shhh, now. No more speaking unless I ask, though you do beg so prettily.” Lucius chuckles and the cavern laughs with him. His hands, covered by dark leather gloves, move down Regulus’ chest in easy, soothing circles. Nimble fingers dance like acrobats and release the clasps of Regulus’ robes, pooling them at his feet.
Regulus shivers; the air rushes in to take him prisoner with its cold bite, and he wishes he could press back against Lucius’ warmth. He feels leather on his neck and has to fight back a moan; it is delicious and captivating, the smooth slide of leather on flesh, and the fingers around his neck tighten like ribbons pulled taut.
Regulus bows his head immediately, sighing.
“Good…good boy.” Lucius leans down and bites his neck, sinking sharp teeth into chilled flesh. Regulus bites his own lip to keep from crying out; the pain is like candy edged with needles, sliding sweet and sharp down his spine while splashes of red light spark behind his eyes.
Lucius presses his tongue to the indention left from his teeth, and Regulus feels a hand sliding down over his trousers, where’s he’s hard and aching, rubbing gently. “If you’re worthy, Regulus, I shall let you come. And then you shall be marked. Would you like that, dear boy? Pain such as you’ve never felt, right on the heels of pleasure? You may answer me.”
He wants to answer but oh, it’s so hard to do that, with his breath captive and strangled by desire in his throat. “Y-yes,” he manages, choking out the word, like it’s been pulled from his very soul and thrown at Lucius’ feet, lying naked and gleaming on the floor between them.
“I thought that you might,” Lucius murmurs, and his hand is sliding beneath Regulus’ trousers, black leather rubbing sensually over Regulus’ stomach. “We ask for your loyalty, Regulus. Unquestionable.”
The hand is teasing downwards in slow strokes; Regulus feels leather brush over the head of his cock and sways on his feet. The hand at his neck tightens further; Lucius’ pale hair is all around him, the scent in his mouth and the strands a silver curtain over his eyes.
He is captive to Malfoy’s hands and his sinister voice; it thrums against him like a drum, reverberating in all the secret places of his body that he wishes Lucius would touch. Malfoy’s long fingers wrap slowly, teasingly, around his cock.
The pulse of Regulus’ blood is slow and sure, and the noise in his ear is deafening like the tide washing out a beach during a storm. Lucius squeezes his neck harder, mimicking his torturous caresses on his cock, and Regulus feels his breathing slow as the world begins to fade. “You would die, for our Lord? You would lay your life at his feet and meet darkness as he commands?”
It is hard to hear the words, between the terror and the pleasure swirling thick like honey in his veins, but Regulus manages to nod. It’s taken all his effort, his very being is in Lucius’ thrall just as his body is held completely still in Lucius’ beautifully cruel hands.
The pressure builds at the base of his spine; warmth curls low in his belly as his vision begins to fade. The sharp lines of the cavern blur together into a light green whirl broken by shards of white; Lucius’ hair, still in his eyes, and it’s all beautiful kaleidoscope of colors and he’s warm now, yes, warm, and-
“Give us everything, Regulus. Life. Death.” Lucius bites his neck again, and Regulus feels the fingers pressing in inexorably at the pulse on his neck, and the hand is stroking him hard and sure and fast, and with a cry borne of both lust and terror and everything that he is…
Regulus comes just as Malfoy releases the hold on his neck, and the pleasure-pain-terror of it sends him to his knees, right at Malfoy’s feet, gasping. The shadows reached out to embrace him, and Regulus opens his eyes and his mouth and lets the darkness in to drown him.
* * *
“Regulus.”
The voice sounds like a thousand snakes hissing in some demented chorus, and when Regulus opens his eyes he sees two spots of crimson shining demonically in the darkness.
Have I died, then?
“No, Regulus. Not dead. You shall never die.” The voice rings like a bell in the chamber; resounding and loud, tinged with the sparkle of pure fanaticism. “Rise, and approach me.”
He does; his trousers are undone and he is sticky, and it is hard to walk. His body feels languid, limp; he feels like the water sliding eternally down the stone walls of the cavern. Still, he approaches that black-shrouded figure, standing still before him with red eyes like hellfire trained on Regulus’ every cautious move.
All around him, Regulus feels eyes, like a million peacocks lined up in a row and flashing their brilliant plumes. He looks; they are there, the Dark Lord’s chosen, robed in black with faces covered by bleached white bone.
He does not know which one is Lucius. His body is shivering with the aftermath of his capitulation; he wants someone to embrace him, to hold him. He turns wide eyes to the Dark Lord, who waiting with wand outstretched.
“Be one of us, Regulus, and triumph over death.”
Regulus feels the cold crawl of the Dark Lord’s fingers on his shirt, pushing it up to expose the skin beneath. They are not like Lucius’ fingers at all; the Dark Lord pulses with the same frigid cold as the cavern, his fingers are icicles tipped by glassy nails.
The pain of the Mark burned into his flesh is worse than anything, better than everything. The Dark Lord draws the pattern slowly, teasingly, as if time has stopped and he has all eternity to mark Regulus with his chosen symbol.
“I do, Regulus. I have all of eternity. And so too shall you.”
The pain of it breaks him at last, just as it was intended to do. He’s sick and sobbing, curling into himself on the hard stone floor. He smells burned flesh and hair and tries not to retch. Still, there is a part of him that revels in the pain, that takes it all in like sustenance too long denied.
He gorges on the pain as he did on the pleasure. A starving man, naked and weak, unresisting his lord’s pleasure.
A moment later he feels hands on him, hears the whispered murmur of voices all around him. They urge him to rise once more--reborn, be reborn--and his body is draped with a new black robe.
Lucius Malfoy presses his mask into his hand. Regulus affixes it to his face and moves back into the circle, a part of them. He is embraced by his fellow Death Eaters, he is whole. On his arm, his Mark hums happily, and in his mind, he feels the Dark Lord purr.
It is enough.