Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: ldymusyc
From: pre_raphaelite1

Title: Comfort and Joy
Characters/Pairings: Lucius/Narcissa, Arthur/Molly
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: body worship, masturbation, trichophilia (hair fetish), tocophilia (pregnancy fetish)
Other Warnings: Fluff!
Word Count: 1180
Summary/Description: As requested, these partners have an absolute adoration for a particular part of their spouse's body and indulge themselves as the other sleeps.
Author's Notes: Happy Kinky Kristmas! I hope you enjoy this wee fic! It was quite determined to be short and sweet, no matter how long I poked at it.
Much love to Rowan for being generally awesome.



She noticed them first when he was 27. Hidden just there above his ear. At first she thought it was merely the light catching just so. But when she tipped her head they didn't lose their luster. She didn't say anything of it and if he ever noticed her softening glance, he never commented on it.

He hungered for the sight of it. Yearned with a fierceness he never expected. Sometimes he thought, hoped that the sheer force of his will would make it appear. And other times he sunk low into misery at his failure. At their failure.

The two strands of silver hair were soon joined by others. Gradually shimmering into existance in a sea of red like the glint of sunlight through the glass triangle slowly turning in the kitchen window. There was something calming about them, something that made her fingers rise up of their own volition to caress them. He had to know why she did it by the time two became five and five became eleven and eleven became places and patches instead of numbers.

When her flat belly began to swell finally he thought he was imagining it. That months of wanting it had taken their toll on him and he was hallucinating. But she assured him that this dream was no illusion and he laid his hand over it whenever he could, feeling the small round hardness of a growing uterus change under his palm with each passing week until a flood of red took it away from him. Away from them, and his hand was empty and his heart too full.

It was no surprise to her when those patches merged together, nor was its cause a mystery. Four would have been enough but to have the fourth and fifth together? It didn't take more than a fortnight for her to realise that they were both lucky to have any hair left at all. But she would have given up all of her own to save his, for in those few blissfully quiet hours in the earliest hours of the morning, she would touch those silver strands and think of what they meant. The hours shared together. The hardships and the joys. And in that profound comfort, her other hand would steal away and slip into the moistness between her thighs.

He was afraid to touch it the next time, worried that perhaps his constant cups and caresses had sent the last child away. But he was better, stronger, and weaker than that and it was only days before his hand was there again, low on her belly, one finger just barely brushing delicate lace. Even as she slept, curled on her side with one small hand drawn up to rest at her chin, he'd keep his hand there as if he could protect the child with his touch. And the larger their child grew, proof of their united strength and purpose and supremacy, the more alluring he found his wife's body and the harder he would become.

Her fingers moved surely, steadily. These were the hours of quiet, the few and the much deserved and she wouldn't rush her pleasure. Her husband slept peacefully beside her and even the constantly flickering light above her side of the bed didn't wake him, didn't fail to show her the increasingly mussed state of his silvering hair. Back and forth her finger rubbed, dipping occasionally between her swollen folds to make the slide of her finger that much smoother, that much wetter with the simple bounty of her arousal. Her body ached with exquisite perfection, arching, tightening as she kept her half-hooded eyes locked on his hair. Ginger and grey, crimson and crystaline, sweeps of colours that began to rise in her as her skin warmed with silent waves of heat and need, washing through her with every stroke of her finger.

With his free hand slipping down between them and his nose pressed into the hair at the back of her head, he breathed in her scent.The familiar mix of roses and sweet cream, warm skin and promise, filled his head as his hand closed around himself, already throbbing for touch, for release. He kept his other hand on her belly, now large enough to fill both hands with their future, ripe with its own power to set his hand into a quick rhythm along his straining hardness. His time wasn't to be wasted, not here or outside of their down-covered bed. She slept lightly enough when his breath wasn't fluttering her hair and his fingers curling onto the taut skin over their restless child. To say nothing of the hot tip that was brushing tiny pearls of fluid over the lacy curves of her arse with his pistoning grip. Faster, he worked himself, heartbeat and breath starting to race with his hand.

It was thinking of how those hairs have shown up elsewhere on his body that finally did it. The greying of those ginger curls around his shaft and balls, like the hair has been silvered by the streaks of their combined release after she had ridden him to completion. Her fleshy body shuddered as she gave a throaty cry, finger pressing down on that hypersensitive bud and drawing out her orgasm just long enough to force her eyes closed. But the colours don't fade, jeweling the inside of her eyelids even as sleep steals in on the heels of climax to wrap her into a drifting cocoon of dreams that would be too soon pulled apart again by the never-ending demands for breakfast and clean nappies.

The curve of her hip brushed the inside of his wrist as she shifted in her sleep and his other hand flew quicker, grip tightening. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, a sharp reminder to stifle his sounds, and his eyes were closed so he could better focus on the feel of her, of them. Tight, warm skin, those occasional presses back against his touch from wife and child. Life under his hand, in his hand. Thriving but dependent, delicate but not weak, theirs and them together. Heat flashed up his spine and his hand jerked to a final stop at the spurting tip, catching the hot fluid in his palm. He laid silently panting for breath then struggled up to go shower off the proof of climax and progeny.

Arthur wakes before Molly does, noting the lingering scent of sex in the air and his complete lack of memory of any such occurance and smiles. He caresses the fullness of one breast, hidden behind the softness of her thick nightgown, then wanders off to take a long, hot shower, his erection tight and eager against his belly.

Narcissa wakes to find the bed empty, Lucius' pillow dented but cold. She frowns in the silent darkness but finally sees him, long hair damp against bare shoulders, standing next to the frosted window. Pushing up on her elbows, she calls him to her, arms open and legs spreading to welcome him back to where he belongs.