Sympathy for the Devil (RW/LM, NC-17)
Title: Sympathy for the Devil
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Spoilers: None
Summary: There are greater sins.
Sympathy for the Devil
It it hot, it is dry, and thought you are in the middle of the ever-fucking desert they have somehow got oranges to serve. The groves are in California somewhere, not local, but cheap enough to ferry in by truck or Apparation. You eat oranges and brood and drink too much wine because you are sick of being sandblasted for three Knuts per word and the Daily Prophet gives out promotions like a nun gives out condoms for Christmas. You sit in the corner of the overbright room drinking wine because you want to feel sophisticate, and choking on cigarette smoke, and you wonder how far away is England as the broom flies, and would anybody notice if you came?
Not that you'd go. Because you came to the desert for a reason, because here you are not accused, because here there is no blood on your hands to itch like a brand new scar. Here is where you ran to escape your own guilty conscious when in the deep places of night you confronted it and failed. Harry can tell anyone he likes to shut up these days and he does it until he's blue but that doesn't stop the angel on your shoulder or the demons in the bottom of your brain. Here you went looking to forget and ended up looking for redemption, only you don't know what it looks like or where to call it during business hours and even if you did you might just be too craven, Gryffindor or not, because you have an idea that redemption for your sins is paid in blood.
And then he walks into the room like white fire, and you choke on your wine and you ruin your shirt and you stare at him. Because he is too flawless, because he is manicured, because he is alive and eating oranges in Vegas when he should've been buried in Azkaban. He moves like beauty and he laughs like humor but there is something sharper underneath his skin so that he is still brilliant in damnation and it speaks to you. It draws you from all the way across the room like a Summoning charm or a candle for a suicidal moth, and your body reacts, and in your head you know that one word of this could make you famous and get you out of the desert forever but somehow that doesn't seem very important now, not nearly as important as the way his head turns and the paper napkin he shreds without looking.
He could destroy you.
That may not be so bad.
He looks like an angel but there's blood on his hands, too, blood up to the elbow not so much unlike yourself, except he isn't here looking for something to destroy him for his sins. And though you stand up and fumble with your quill and your camera you know, in your hollow heart, that you will not win a promotion by breaking this story to the universe, in fact you will not even breath a word, because when he glances at you there is steel in his smile and it turns your knees to water.
You realize, right away, he has no idea who you are.
"Been here long?" Even is voice is flawless, perfect intonation, and it slides oily up and down your spine. His fingers are long and when he peels an orange you have to swallow very hard because of the way he tears its skin.
"Long enough to be sick of it."
"Not long at all then."
"Not really, no."
He knows what he does to you when he bites down on a section of orange and tears it apart with his perfect white teeth. He sees you staring and smiles. He leans in close to your ear and he whispers "if you're still here later, perhaps we could have a chat," and then he leaves, and you know from the swirl of his coattails and the gleam in his long blond hair that there isn't going to be any chatting at all, that if you are very very lucky there won't even be any words.
You spend the rest of the evening nursing your wine and trying to talk yourself out of it. You eavesdrop, too clumsy, because he notices you and his little bon mots make you break out in a sweat. He can play you like a puppet on a string or some strange elegant instrument and it leaves you dancing, vibrating on the inside from every deft turn of his phrase. You watch him all night from the corner of your eye or the mirrors in the walls, drinking wine and tearing napkins, and you remind yourself of all he did and didn't. but you are aren't one to cast stones and the crimes of yesteryear don't seem nearly so important as the slender fingers that plunge into an orange.
It's three a.m. You haven't left.
It makes him smile.
"Come along, come along...I know where we can speak privately." You leave behind you bag and camera because you are not a journalist here or now. You let him lead you to the bank of lifts, into lifts with the shiney gold doors that throw back a blurred reflection as you stand, too straight, uneasey just next to him without touching. He pushes a button and you feeling the lift rising, and you try to swallow the cotton in your mouth until he casually reaches out on hand to touch you. You have to stay still as he traces your waist, circles your spine and hip, you have to freeze because he is watching you in the blurry gold doors, but when his hand plunges below your belt you can't help it that you squirm.. He smiles. In the mirror doors you watch his arm scarcely move, as you both stand facing front, nothing unusual, but you feel his questing fingers seek and find the crack of your ass and press, just gently, inside. No penetration-no lube-but even without that friction you gasp for him, arch and whimper, and he smiles, and you know exactly how the rest of the night will lead.
He doesn't remove his finger when the doors open and he guides you down the hall, in fact he guides you with it, insidious touches that indicate a turn. You pass people, drunken happy gamblers and maids and vacationers, but they don't notice anything because, as far as you know, he simply doesn't want to be noticed. When you pass one random door, he stops you with a precise poke and stands at your side.
"The keys are in my left pocket. Get them out."
You slip your hand into folds of linen that costs more than your life and you find the keys, all right, and something else besides that makes you swallow hard again. He likes that and smiles and tell you to open the door. The room inside is already lit and impersonal in shades of taupe and cream, and he finally releases you with a sharp shove in the direction of the bed.
"Strip."
Obedient unto the last you start to fumble over zippers and buckles and ties. He opens the minibar and pours himself wine and watches with a smirk until you stand, uncertain, desperate and shivering because the room must be fifty degrees. He turns you around and examines you like his latest acquisition, and you submit to it if only because you can. England is a thousand miles away and the crimes of five years or six centuries have nothing to do with you now. He seems to agree, and approve.
"On the bed now, lovely." It's a ridiculous endearment that makes you flush but you climb, and sit uneasily, until he conjurs up a long silk scarf from the air. It's soft to touch but steel strong, and as he ties your wrists behind your back you can't help but whimper again, overstimulated, longing. He takes you in and notes your weeping cock, and something seems to occur to him in the moment it takes to flash you a metallic smile. That smile is going to be the death of you.
He leaves briefly but returns with chocolates, little square ones with bright foil wrappers that crinkle as he peels them away in a single piece. He urges your mouth open, puts one inside, but holds your jaw to prevent you from chewing or swallowing. After a moment your understand, because his lips close over yours and he laps the melting sweet from inside you, and tastes every ridge and crevice with slick strokes and hot breath, and you fancy for a moment that the tip of his tongue is forked. When you can finally stop moaning and open your eyes he is smirking at you and dabbing streaks of chocolate from his lips, and if you could frame a coherent thought and speak a word then all you would say is please. Somehow he seems to understand
He teases your nipples, a cruel mercy if that's possible, and kisses you again with vigor. He bites, bruising your lip, marking your shoulder and neck, and then pulls away to roll up his sleeves with exaggerated care while you groan and squirm and try to relieve yourself. Then it's one, two, three rough grabs and you start to come because you've been overstimulated and it's been far too long, but he takes you just so and squeezes and then you scream, scream loud and endless, and as your limbs stop shaking you are just as hard as before and he starts all over.
This goes on for a while. You could ask him to stop. You don't.
When you fall over gasping and can't right yourself, he stops, and commands you to lick his fingers. You taste your own sweat and salt and chocolate and oranges in his skin. When he's satisfied he pats you on the head and ruffles your hair, one more absurdity to make you cringe and blush. Then he pulls down his pants and reveals his own standing cock, and you are too proud to wait for orders to roll over and spread. He pulls yours legs straight, ties your ankles with silk, and swats you sharply when you squirm against the bed. It's not like you can help yourself at this point, though, bruised rigid cock throbbing and aching and pinned between your body and coarse duvet. He raises your hips with pillows and conjures up lube, finally, something oily and cold that he smears carelessly, slicking you without stretching, fingering without relieving. Your whole body spasms when he penetrates, and you scream yourself hoarse while he fucks you bloody, but you don't really care, because a part of you wants it that way.
You come long before he does, and he doesn't make a sound, and it burns and stings inside you. He leaves you bound for the moment while he carefully cleans himself and puts his clothes back in array. Only then does he clean you, gently, with an ice-cold cloth, and only then does he perform some basic healing spells that don't really help your aching guts, and only then does he finally release your bonds. You are too exhausted to move while he carefully gathers his luggage and leaves, never glancing at you again, and you anticipate quite a scene with the morning maid, but the aches in your body overpower your will to move. You doze off in the freezing-cold room, and you dream about blood and angels and steel.
-x-X-x-X-x-
"Hermione Granger's office, how may I help you?"
"It's Ron."
"Ron! It's about time you finally called."
"You know I'm bad with fellytones."
"Where are you, anyway? Your mum just said you were on an assignment somewhere. I feel like we haven't talked in ages."
"I'm in America. Las Vegas, actually."
"Las Vegas!"
"I'm covering a couple of Quidditch things for the Prophet."
"Ron, haven't you head? Lucius Malfoy was sighted in Las Vegas just a few days ago! Don't tell me you haven't heard anything, it's been all over the place here..."
"Not really, no. Are they sure it was him?"
"He's not exactly easy to miss, Ron. Are you sure you haven't heard anything about this?"
"Hermione, I haven't heard a word about Lucius Malfoy in months."
"I don't believe it...look, why was it you called again? I don't want to run up a charge."
"I just wanted you to let my mum know I'm on my way home. I reckoned this'd be quicker than a transatlantic owl."
"You're probably right. Are you taking Muggle transit?"
"Only to Los Angeles. I'll catch a Portkey from there."
"All right. Take care of yourself, Ron."
"You too, Hermione."
"Love you."
-x-X-x-X-x-
Lust. Fornication. Deception.
There are greater sins.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Spoilers: None
Summary: There are greater sins.
Sympathy for the Devil
It it hot, it is dry, and thought you are in the middle of the ever-fucking desert they have somehow got oranges to serve. The groves are in California somewhere, not local, but cheap enough to ferry in by truck or Apparation. You eat oranges and brood and drink too much wine because you are sick of being sandblasted for three Knuts per word and the Daily Prophet gives out promotions like a nun gives out condoms for Christmas. You sit in the corner of the overbright room drinking wine because you want to feel sophisticate, and choking on cigarette smoke, and you wonder how far away is England as the broom flies, and would anybody notice if you came?
Not that you'd go. Because you came to the desert for a reason, because here you are not accused, because here there is no blood on your hands to itch like a brand new scar. Here is where you ran to escape your own guilty conscious when in the deep places of night you confronted it and failed. Harry can tell anyone he likes to shut up these days and he does it until he's blue but that doesn't stop the angel on your shoulder or the demons in the bottom of your brain. Here you went looking to forget and ended up looking for redemption, only you don't know what it looks like or where to call it during business hours and even if you did you might just be too craven, Gryffindor or not, because you have an idea that redemption for your sins is paid in blood.
And then he walks into the room like white fire, and you choke on your wine and you ruin your shirt and you stare at him. Because he is too flawless, because he is manicured, because he is alive and eating oranges in Vegas when he should've been buried in Azkaban. He moves like beauty and he laughs like humor but there is something sharper underneath his skin so that he is still brilliant in damnation and it speaks to you. It draws you from all the way across the room like a Summoning charm or a candle for a suicidal moth, and your body reacts, and in your head you know that one word of this could make you famous and get you out of the desert forever but somehow that doesn't seem very important now, not nearly as important as the way his head turns and the paper napkin he shreds without looking.
He could destroy you.
That may not be so bad.
He looks like an angel but there's blood on his hands, too, blood up to the elbow not so much unlike yourself, except he isn't here looking for something to destroy him for his sins. And though you stand up and fumble with your quill and your camera you know, in your hollow heart, that you will not win a promotion by breaking this story to the universe, in fact you will not even breath a word, because when he glances at you there is steel in his smile and it turns your knees to water.
You realize, right away, he has no idea who you are.
"Been here long?" Even is voice is flawless, perfect intonation, and it slides oily up and down your spine. His fingers are long and when he peels an orange you have to swallow very hard because of the way he tears its skin.
"Long enough to be sick of it."
"Not long at all then."
"Not really, no."
He knows what he does to you when he bites down on a section of orange and tears it apart with his perfect white teeth. He sees you staring and smiles. He leans in close to your ear and he whispers "if you're still here later, perhaps we could have a chat," and then he leaves, and you know from the swirl of his coattails and the gleam in his long blond hair that there isn't going to be any chatting at all, that if you are very very lucky there won't even be any words.
You spend the rest of the evening nursing your wine and trying to talk yourself out of it. You eavesdrop, too clumsy, because he notices you and his little bon mots make you break out in a sweat. He can play you like a puppet on a string or some strange elegant instrument and it leaves you dancing, vibrating on the inside from every deft turn of his phrase. You watch him all night from the corner of your eye or the mirrors in the walls, drinking wine and tearing napkins, and you remind yourself of all he did and didn't. but you are aren't one to cast stones and the crimes of yesteryear don't seem nearly so important as the slender fingers that plunge into an orange.
It's three a.m. You haven't left.
It makes him smile.
"Come along, come along...I know where we can speak privately." You leave behind you bag and camera because you are not a journalist here or now. You let him lead you to the bank of lifts, into lifts with the shiney gold doors that throw back a blurred reflection as you stand, too straight, uneasey just next to him without touching. He pushes a button and you feeling the lift rising, and you try to swallow the cotton in your mouth until he casually reaches out on hand to touch you. You have to stay still as he traces your waist, circles your spine and hip, you have to freeze because he is watching you in the blurry gold doors, but when his hand plunges below your belt you can't help it that you squirm.. He smiles. In the mirror doors you watch his arm scarcely move, as you both stand facing front, nothing unusual, but you feel his questing fingers seek and find the crack of your ass and press, just gently, inside. No penetration-no lube-but even without that friction you gasp for him, arch and whimper, and he smiles, and you know exactly how the rest of the night will lead.
He doesn't remove his finger when the doors open and he guides you down the hall, in fact he guides you with it, insidious touches that indicate a turn. You pass people, drunken happy gamblers and maids and vacationers, but they don't notice anything because, as far as you know, he simply doesn't want to be noticed. When you pass one random door, he stops you with a precise poke and stands at your side.
"The keys are in my left pocket. Get them out."
You slip your hand into folds of linen that costs more than your life and you find the keys, all right, and something else besides that makes you swallow hard again. He likes that and smiles and tell you to open the door. The room inside is already lit and impersonal in shades of taupe and cream, and he finally releases you with a sharp shove in the direction of the bed.
"Strip."
Obedient unto the last you start to fumble over zippers and buckles and ties. He opens the minibar and pours himself wine and watches with a smirk until you stand, uncertain, desperate and shivering because the room must be fifty degrees. He turns you around and examines you like his latest acquisition, and you submit to it if only because you can. England is a thousand miles away and the crimes of five years or six centuries have nothing to do with you now. He seems to agree, and approve.
"On the bed now, lovely." It's a ridiculous endearment that makes you flush but you climb, and sit uneasily, until he conjurs up a long silk scarf from the air. It's soft to touch but steel strong, and as he ties your wrists behind your back you can't help but whimper again, overstimulated, longing. He takes you in and notes your weeping cock, and something seems to occur to him in the moment it takes to flash you a metallic smile. That smile is going to be the death of you.
He leaves briefly but returns with chocolates, little square ones with bright foil wrappers that crinkle as he peels them away in a single piece. He urges your mouth open, puts one inside, but holds your jaw to prevent you from chewing or swallowing. After a moment your understand, because his lips close over yours and he laps the melting sweet from inside you, and tastes every ridge and crevice with slick strokes and hot breath, and you fancy for a moment that the tip of his tongue is forked. When you can finally stop moaning and open your eyes he is smirking at you and dabbing streaks of chocolate from his lips, and if you could frame a coherent thought and speak a word then all you would say is please. Somehow he seems to understand
He teases your nipples, a cruel mercy if that's possible, and kisses you again with vigor. He bites, bruising your lip, marking your shoulder and neck, and then pulls away to roll up his sleeves with exaggerated care while you groan and squirm and try to relieve yourself. Then it's one, two, three rough grabs and you start to come because you've been overstimulated and it's been far too long, but he takes you just so and squeezes and then you scream, scream loud and endless, and as your limbs stop shaking you are just as hard as before and he starts all over.
This goes on for a while. You could ask him to stop. You don't.
When you fall over gasping and can't right yourself, he stops, and commands you to lick his fingers. You taste your own sweat and salt and chocolate and oranges in his skin. When he's satisfied he pats you on the head and ruffles your hair, one more absurdity to make you cringe and blush. Then he pulls down his pants and reveals his own standing cock, and you are too proud to wait for orders to roll over and spread. He pulls yours legs straight, ties your ankles with silk, and swats you sharply when you squirm against the bed. It's not like you can help yourself at this point, though, bruised rigid cock throbbing and aching and pinned between your body and coarse duvet. He raises your hips with pillows and conjures up lube, finally, something oily and cold that he smears carelessly, slicking you without stretching, fingering without relieving. Your whole body spasms when he penetrates, and you scream yourself hoarse while he fucks you bloody, but you don't really care, because a part of you wants it that way.
You come long before he does, and he doesn't make a sound, and it burns and stings inside you. He leaves you bound for the moment while he carefully cleans himself and puts his clothes back in array. Only then does he clean you, gently, with an ice-cold cloth, and only then does he perform some basic healing spells that don't really help your aching guts, and only then does he finally release your bonds. You are too exhausted to move while he carefully gathers his luggage and leaves, never glancing at you again, and you anticipate quite a scene with the morning maid, but the aches in your body overpower your will to move. You doze off in the freezing-cold room, and you dream about blood and angels and steel.
-x-X-x-X-x-
"Hermione Granger's office, how may I help you?"
"It's Ron."
"Ron! It's about time you finally called."
"You know I'm bad with fellytones."
"Where are you, anyway? Your mum just said you were on an assignment somewhere. I feel like we haven't talked in ages."
"I'm in America. Las Vegas, actually."
"Las Vegas!"
"I'm covering a couple of Quidditch things for the Prophet."
"Ron, haven't you head? Lucius Malfoy was sighted in Las Vegas just a few days ago! Don't tell me you haven't heard anything, it's been all over the place here..."
"Not really, no. Are they sure it was him?"
"He's not exactly easy to miss, Ron. Are you sure you haven't heard anything about this?"
"Hermione, I haven't heard a word about Lucius Malfoy in months."
"I don't believe it...look, why was it you called again? I don't want to run up a charge."
"I just wanted you to let my mum know I'm on my way home. I reckoned this'd be quicker than a transatlantic owl."
"You're probably right. Are you taking Muggle transit?"
"Only to Los Angeles. I'll catch a Portkey from there."
"All right. Take care of yourself, Ron."
"You too, Hermione."
"Love you."
-x-X-x-X-x-
Lust. Fornication. Deception.
There are greater sins.