FIC: Death Eater's Wife
Written for shadowclub in the 2007 sunandsmut anonymous exchange.
TITLE: Death Eater's Wife
PAIRING: Lucius/Narcissa
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Narcissa waits for Lucius to return from Muggle-baiting after the Quidditch World Cup.
WARNINGS: um, het. Don't look at me like that, it was for an exchange!
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of complete fiction, and anything you recognize belongs to J. K. Rowling and associated media corporations.
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to my fabulous betas, who turned this around SO quickly.
"Where is father?"
"He had business to attend to, Draco. He'll Apparate to the Manor when he is finished. Have you bid your friends farewell?" Only years of training and practice kept Narcissa's voice calm and empty. She had seen Lucius transfigure his robes, knew that he had the mask in one of his pockets, and she knew what he would be doing tonight. Knew what sort of mood he'd be in when he came home to her. A shudder of anticipation, ruthlessly suppressed, tried to work its way up her spine.
Nodding, Draco held out his arm and moved to escort her out of the Minister's tent. By the time they reached the private portkey area, raised voices and the sound of fighting could be heard.
"Mother, what-"
Only her firm grip on his sleeve kept Draco by her side as the portkey activated, depositing them in the marbled foyer of Malfoy Manor. Narcissa immediately released her son, heading for the grand staircase.
"Don't concern yourself, Draco. Your father will explain in the morning. Good night, darling."
Narcissa could feel her son's discontent, disconcerted gaze on her back, but its weight was minor in comparison to the thrill of excitement she felt. She walked sedately up the staircase and down the hall, not stopping until she had reached the privacy of the bedroom. Once there, she leaned against the closed door and breathed deeply.
Tonight, Death Eaters roamed again. Tonight - there was no stopping the shudder and the rising goosebumps as she thought of it now - tonight was the first time in years that Lucius had taken his mask out of its hexed, Disillusioned case.
She remembered the first time she'd seen it, shortly after their wedding. Lucius had told her he would be out for the evening, that there was an important political meeting. She was a Black, and she knew what sort of politicking he'd meant; Bellatrix and Rodolphus had been sharing their opinions about Mudbloods and pureblood superiority and their beloved Dark Lord for years, and while Narcissa had no interest in direct participation, she appreciated the sentiment.
Narcissa closed her eyes, savoring the memory.
She was in the study, and had just finished a thank-you note - the thrill she got from signing Narcissa Black Malfoy hadn't waned yet - when she heard the sound of boots on parquet floor. She turned to greet her husband and found a completely cloaked, silent figure hovering in the doorway.
Black robe, black trousers, black boots and gloves. Only the long blond hair and silver mask alleviated the uniformity, and somehow instead of making him look less threatening, they did the opposite.
"Lucius?"
Silence.
He entered the room and moved to stand next to her desk. The longer his silence went on, the more her apprehension grew, the knots in her stomach tightening with every moment, twisting into something new and different.
He reached up and slipped the mask off, tossing it onto the desk without glancing to see where it fell. Lucius' eyes, cool and grey, never left Narcissa's. Now that the mask was gone, she could see the glitter of excitement, the thrill of victory in them. No words were necessary then; even if his voice had been consumed by the night's events, Narcissa could see it had been a triumph.
The sides of his mouth curved upward, and she thought he was about to speak after all, but instead his lips curled into a cruel smile that lit his eyes with pale fire. Lucius lifted one gloved hand pushed back the sleeve of his robes, pushed aside his shirtsleeve to reveal it: he had earned his Mark. It wasn't until the next day that she learned its price: the lives of the Prewett brothers, the wretched blood traitors.
The Dark Mark was a black imprint on pale, firm skin. Tentatively, Narcissa reached out to stroke it, not knowing whether to expect a reaction from the magical sigil. She couldn't say what drove her; she lifted it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the head of the serpent. Lucius hissed in response, twisting to grab her and pull her against him violently. This embrace was nothing like the cool affection he'd shown her until now. His lips swiped hers roughly, then his tongue was pushing into her mouth and the hand that wasn't clamped on her wrist was twisting in her hair, holding her still. Narcissa felt the tingle of fear and arousal, and finally understood what it was to truly want. This feeling was a thousand times better than the mild pleasure she'd felt under his hands before.
Her skin felt too small, tight and fever-hot over her flesh. She wanted to pull every bit of Lucius into herself right then and there, keep him, use him, and let him use her until there was nothing left. And he wanted something similar, because instead of escorting her up to their bedroom like a gentleman, he was pushing her robes off her shoulders and tugging her down onto the carpet without ever separating their lips.
When Lucius finally released his grip on her wrist, it was to twist her shirt away from her torso; the sleeves caught around her hands, but instead of removing them, he left them, shackling them together above Narcissa's head, pressed against the plush carpet in the grip of one large hand. With the other he pushed up her skirt and slid his hand between her legs, smirking at the warm wetness he found. Lucius didn't undress at all; he unfastened his trousers and pushed into her, no foreplay, no gentleness, nothing but force. Narcissa wrapped her legs around him and arched up to take as much as she could, as deep and fast and rough as he could give it.
He was still pinning her wrists above her head, which put his forearm directly in Narcissa's reach. She stretched upward, arching her neck into his mouth as she licked the Dark Mark. Lucius' hips jerked hard against her; his hands tightened on her wrists, making marks she knew would become bracelets of bruises, and she felt him spilling into her. He bit down hard on her neck even as he pulled her pelvis into his, and that was enough. She convulsed around him, savoring the pleasure-pain at every point of connection.
That was only the first time Narcissa and Lucius marked the deaths of blood traitors with a dark celebration.
The Bones family.
Benjy Fenwick.
Marlene McKinnon and her husband and children.
Caradoc Dearborn.
With a smile of anticipation, Narcissa shed her robes and sat down at her dressing table. Lucius would be home soon.
TITLE: Death Eater's Wife
PAIRING: Lucius/Narcissa
RATING: R
SUMMARY: Narcissa waits for Lucius to return from Muggle-baiting after the Quidditch World Cup.
WARNINGS: um, het. Don't look at me like that, it was for an exchange!
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of complete fiction, and anything you recognize belongs to J. K. Rowling and associated media corporations.
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to my fabulous betas, who turned this around SO quickly.
"Where is father?"
"He had business to attend to, Draco. He'll Apparate to the Manor when he is finished. Have you bid your friends farewell?" Only years of training and practice kept Narcissa's voice calm and empty. She had seen Lucius transfigure his robes, knew that he had the mask in one of his pockets, and she knew what he would be doing tonight. Knew what sort of mood he'd be in when he came home to her. A shudder of anticipation, ruthlessly suppressed, tried to work its way up her spine.
Nodding, Draco held out his arm and moved to escort her out of the Minister's tent. By the time they reached the private portkey area, raised voices and the sound of fighting could be heard.
"Mother, what-"
Only her firm grip on his sleeve kept Draco by her side as the portkey activated, depositing them in the marbled foyer of Malfoy Manor. Narcissa immediately released her son, heading for the grand staircase.
"Don't concern yourself, Draco. Your father will explain in the morning. Good night, darling."
Narcissa could feel her son's discontent, disconcerted gaze on her back, but its weight was minor in comparison to the thrill of excitement she felt. She walked sedately up the staircase and down the hall, not stopping until she had reached the privacy of the bedroom. Once there, she leaned against the closed door and breathed deeply.
Tonight, Death Eaters roamed again. Tonight - there was no stopping the shudder and the rising goosebumps as she thought of it now - tonight was the first time in years that Lucius had taken his mask out of its hexed, Disillusioned case.
She remembered the first time she'd seen it, shortly after their wedding. Lucius had told her he would be out for the evening, that there was an important political meeting. She was a Black, and she knew what sort of politicking he'd meant; Bellatrix and Rodolphus had been sharing their opinions about Mudbloods and pureblood superiority and their beloved Dark Lord for years, and while Narcissa had no interest in direct participation, she appreciated the sentiment.
Narcissa closed her eyes, savoring the memory.
She was in the study, and had just finished a thank-you note - the thrill she got from signing Narcissa Black Malfoy hadn't waned yet - when she heard the sound of boots on parquet floor. She turned to greet her husband and found a completely cloaked, silent figure hovering in the doorway.
Black robe, black trousers, black boots and gloves. Only the long blond hair and silver mask alleviated the uniformity, and somehow instead of making him look less threatening, they did the opposite.
"Lucius?"
Silence.
He entered the room and moved to stand next to her desk. The longer his silence went on, the more her apprehension grew, the knots in her stomach tightening with every moment, twisting into something new and different.
He reached up and slipped the mask off, tossing it onto the desk without glancing to see where it fell. Lucius' eyes, cool and grey, never left Narcissa's. Now that the mask was gone, she could see the glitter of excitement, the thrill of victory in them. No words were necessary then; even if his voice had been consumed by the night's events, Narcissa could see it had been a triumph.
The sides of his mouth curved upward, and she thought he was about to speak after all, but instead his lips curled into a cruel smile that lit his eyes with pale fire. Lucius lifted one gloved hand pushed back the sleeve of his robes, pushed aside his shirtsleeve to reveal it: he had earned his Mark. It wasn't until the next day that she learned its price: the lives of the Prewett brothers, the wretched blood traitors.
The Dark Mark was a black imprint on pale, firm skin. Tentatively, Narcissa reached out to stroke it, not knowing whether to expect a reaction from the magical sigil. She couldn't say what drove her; she lifted it to her lips and pressed a kiss to the head of the serpent. Lucius hissed in response, twisting to grab her and pull her against him violently. This embrace was nothing like the cool affection he'd shown her until now. His lips swiped hers roughly, then his tongue was pushing into her mouth and the hand that wasn't clamped on her wrist was twisting in her hair, holding her still. Narcissa felt the tingle of fear and arousal, and finally understood what it was to truly want. This feeling was a thousand times better than the mild pleasure she'd felt under his hands before.
Her skin felt too small, tight and fever-hot over her flesh. She wanted to pull every bit of Lucius into herself right then and there, keep him, use him, and let him use her until there was nothing left. And he wanted something similar, because instead of escorting her up to their bedroom like a gentleman, he was pushing her robes off her shoulders and tugging her down onto the carpet without ever separating their lips.
When Lucius finally released his grip on her wrist, it was to twist her shirt away from her torso; the sleeves caught around her hands, but instead of removing them, he left them, shackling them together above Narcissa's head, pressed against the plush carpet in the grip of one large hand. With the other he pushed up her skirt and slid his hand between her legs, smirking at the warm wetness he found. Lucius didn't undress at all; he unfastened his trousers and pushed into her, no foreplay, no gentleness, nothing but force. Narcissa wrapped her legs around him and arched up to take as much as she could, as deep and fast and rough as he could give it.
He was still pinning her wrists above her head, which put his forearm directly in Narcissa's reach. She stretched upward, arching her neck into his mouth as she licked the Dark Mark. Lucius' hips jerked hard against her; his hands tightened on her wrists, making marks she knew would become bracelets of bruises, and she felt him spilling into her. He bit down hard on her neck even as he pulled her pelvis into his, and that was enough. She convulsed around him, savoring the pleasure-pain at every point of connection.
That was only the first time Narcissa and Lucius marked the deaths of blood traitors with a dark celebration.
The Bones family.
Benjy Fenwick.
Marlene McKinnon and her husband and children.
Caradoc Dearborn.
With a smile of anticipation, Narcissa shed her robes and sat down at her dressing table. Lucius would be home soon.