InsaneJournal

Fic: Tension (LM/NM, NC-17)
Title: Tension
Author: snapelike
Characters: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Kinks chosen: Blowjob
Word Count: 1400
Summary: Voldemort's plans are to be executed, and Narcissa knows just how to relieve her tensions.
Author's notes: Nope.


Tension

They do not know her like he does.

As she moves amongst their guests, he watches her; golden hair and pale blue eyes; to him she is like the sun on a spring sky, cold and warm, fresh and new and then still ancient; the first mother, the mother of his child and heir.

He loves her.

Their eyes meet across the room and it feels as if there is no one left but the two of them; the world stands still for a moment, before sounds and smells return and pours back in their minds.

He loves her. He loves the little moments when there is no one but her in the world, he loves that nothing matters but her eyes on him; her thinly veiled passion, hidden only by the fact that people do pretend not to see the fire that burns between them, as if it is inappropriate.

How can it be inappropriate to love one's wife?

She walks through the room, a sunbeam of expensive jewellery and costly fabrics, a visible sign of their wealth and impeccable sense of style.

Only he knows what she looks like when she cries out in his arms, flushed and with her hair in a mess as he makes her come hard, moaning his name.

He loves her and he loves the way he can peel off her correctness and her strict, calm attitude with a word or a touch or a kiss.

He loves her and needs her and he knows how much he owes her. And he gives himself to her, the only appropriate payment for such great a debt.

She steps up to him, he can feel the scent of her warm skin, notes of roses and something else: her own scent, the perfume that is her and which, to him, is more expensive than any French perfume. Her pale purple silk robe - with trimmings in silver and diamonds - it whispers to him, whispers of pliant softness covering her strong body; whispers of long, muscular legs and a slender waist, emphasised by heavy breasts and hips made for motherhood. He loves her, and he loves her body, marked by age and childbirth. He loves her even more for that - that she bears his marks with pride.

'Narcissa...' He smiles at her, that small smile that says exactly how much he appreciates her, and he takes her hand, bringing it to his lips. It is cool and white; an alabaster carving between his fingers. Her nails are little pale moons against her hand's white night, shiny little ovals running over the back of his hand.

He knows how it feels when she cries out and rakes them down his back, her legs tightly wound around him as he thrusts into her.

She is so beautiful, just like a winter's day, all glittering. Her cool skin is like snowdrifts over soft hills. He knows he can bury himself there, in her coolness, and find rest and relief. The candle light of the hall flickers over her body, caresses her without touching, warms her without letting her internal furnace show. She is cold on the outside; a fire to burn him on the inside.


She leans against him and he burns.

Her whisper is a heated breath against his ear and he knows, just knows, how much she wants him. Even here - between their guests, with the Dark Lord presiding - she wants him.

And who will he be to deny his heart's mistress what she wants?

His lip curls in a smile, only for her, they cannot allow others to see what they mean to each other, how much their world narrows to only two pairs of greyish eyes: granite-hard, suddenly melting, burning. The cold fire between them crackles and she speaks her desire.

'The entrance hall. Ten minutes.' She is cold and businesslike, there is no time for endearments now.

He nods. He does not know what she wants, he knows but how careful they will have to be.

The danger arouses him, even before he has turned to say a couple of words to the wizards surrounding him. He excuses himself, there are always the House-elves to blame, something in the kitchen, or something else the master and mistress of the manor have to attend to before their guest can feel comfortable.



He follows her to the dark cold hall, he has barely closed the doors before she presses herself against him. Her body is warm, heat exuding through the flimsy fabric of her gala robe. He knows why she gets like this, a wanton vixen, needy and greedy and hot in his arms. It is the tension. She knows they cannot set one foot wrong, then he will be there, take his revenge on them, the Dark Lord. She needs release. And he will give it to her.

'Are you wet?' he purrs in her ear, as he opens his trousers with one hand, a practised removal of precious brocades and velvets so she can get what is most costly to her.

She nods. No words are necessary, her eyes tell him clearly that she needs nothing but him, she is ready.

'Suck me.'

She almost curtsies into a fluid moment, sinking down in front of him. He is offering his cock to her, hard and ready. He loves to feel her wet mouth around it, her velvet tongue; softer than any fabric.

'Pull your dress up,' he asks her, he is on the border of demanding: he knows it inflames her lust even more when he gets dominant. 'Push two fingers inside and touch yourself. I want to see you come.' He wants her to come undone in front of him while she sucks him, he loves that; to feel her breathing become little sighs, then ragged moans, not at all suitable for a lady. But then she is not a lady when she is on her knees in front of him, she is his woman, and he wants her!

She takes him deep inside, making those caressing little movements with her tongue she knows he loves. She sucks him lightly, making sure he is ready for her to play with him. He groans when her free hand slips over his balls, around the base of the shaft and squeezes - not too hard, and definitely not too soft. He watches her, he cannot take his eyes off her. She is gorgeous as she sits there; with her fingers up her cunt and roses blushing on her cheeks, the rose mouth an 'o' of pleasure around his cock.

She lets him take command, and he slides in and out against her tongue, over her lips, against a light scrape of teeth. He is close; he can feel it, and as she cries out, trembling in her quick orgasm, he feels his own release build. Narcissa's hand cups his balls, moves further, and pushes a finger inside him, making him unable to stop. He spills himself in her mouth, on her lips, and he moans deeply, trying to keep silent.

He drags her up from the floor, a pale hand closing around her wrist. He slides an arm around her waist and lifts the hand she has used on herself to lick her fingers. He loves her taste, and he promises himself that he will take her, he will lick her and taste her as soon as they are alone. He lets go of her and shakes his head as she reaches for her wand to clean them both with a spell. He doesn't want that. He want her to go inside to their guests and smell like sex. No one will know, there will just be a secret scent of woman - his woman.

And only he will be the one to have her.



They return to their guests, hand in hand. Now they have yet more hours where they will pretend to be cold and distant. He gives her hand a squeeze. She knows what it means: he cannot live without her. Together they are whole. No, they cannot be without each other.

Back inside their inner circle, the Dark Lord rises his glass. 'Tomorrow we have a plan to execute. We will retrieve a Prophecy from the Ministry of Magic...'