Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
FIC: "Devotions," Lucius/Severus, Death Eaters/Severus, NC-17 
24th July 2011 01:23
Title: Devotions
Author: [info]thegildedmagpie
Characters/Pairings: Lucius/Severus trying unsuccessfully to pretend it's Voldie/Severus
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: sensory deprivation, magical charms, fingering
Other Warnings: In rough order of appearance: Dubious consent and coercion (who the hell says to the Dark Lord, “no, actually I'd rather not be your sex toy tonight, let's play checkers instead”), plus bondage, depilation, public display/exhibitionism, face slapping, oral sex, bukakke, oral insertions of an orgiastic nature. Also, flagrant abuse of italics.
Word Count: 3020
Summary/Description: Severus, bound and blindfolded, proves himself to his Lord, while Lucius develops a “thing” for the newest initiate.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to [info]pre_raphaelite1, who is always designated L.A. for “lovely assistant” in my anthropology papers, and has earned her moniker again by helping me scientifically determine the exact amount of space required between the bound hands for some of Sev's plot-relevant positions to be possible.



Severus might even enjoy this if it were more than a light veil of gauze bound over his eyes. If there were plugs in his ears, a strap around his cock, a ball gag even, something physical to bite, swell against, hate. But the thin fabric – transparently thin, Severus saw it was so – is cunningly charmed with a spell he's never heard of and he'd drown a kitten to learn, so even when his black eyes open wide against its light pressure

Lucius, a few feet away with Narcissa pressed against him like an interested satin predator, sees the lashes fight the silk

he sees nothing. He hears little, only the suggestion of voices making his thin body want to jump and start, but nothing tangible is blocking his ears; though there's a curious telltale lightness in his balls and a faint pinching behind them telling him he's curtailed by something, the skin between his legs is innocent of binding, innocent in fact of everything but the faint rosy irritation of having been recently denuded of hair.

Lucius helped, along with four others under the Dark Lord's satisfied eyes, the golden straight-razor a temptation and a promise, and his eyes met Bellatrix's at one point and saw her snakishly smug over her silver one; he had to look coldly at her before she pouted and shaved the hair and not the skin, blades gliding with steely mutters from chin to ankles while Severus's narrow body squirmed free of self-preservation and tried to flail against the glowing green threads with which he was lashed down to the table.

He licks his lips quickly, though (if he but knew it) almost obscenely thoroughly, with a tongue that is troublingly free of the habit-deadened taste of his own skin and the sharpness of sweat he knows should dew the philtrum. The air bears no messages to his nose, lifeless and lukewarm to his lungs, lifeless and lukewarm back – though he feels its breezy touch as an agony

The nude, boyish, strained form is twitching just-perceptibly with every swish of someone's cloak or vibrating tap of a heel on the parquet, making him look like a thestral that knows there are flies somewhere and its skin is prepared to quiver them away when they land

on moist skin that intensely knows the stretch of his position

bent back like a gesture study, spine arching, knees spread, gleaming black hair falling straight toward the floor, held in place by the Dark Lord's orders like a hand under his chin and pressing up

kneeling at his new Lord's feet, pale thighs spread at an angle that encompasses the puddle of His black robe.

At least his wrists are bound, hobbled six inches apart behind his back, and the rawness of the pressure has the firm reality of good rope

Narcissa brought the rope from the Black family thestral stables; a halter clip is still swaying at one end, a useless pendulum swaying over the gleaming floor. The item has never been in this twisted, twisting shape; equines are tied with safety knots, not in these cruel contortions

containing him in a way he can, however painfully and pointlessly, fight.

When he's touched, it is, as intended, a shock. Fingers brush his throat and his back bows further, nearly overbalancing him as his shoulders jerk ineffectively to strike his assailant away or to catch his balance. Somewhere at the peripheral edge of awareness under the impressive ache in his cock and below the pit of his belly, helpless nauseating shame pools and quivers; everyone here has seen him stripped before, whether by prank or punishment from a classmate or in usual dormitory blunders, but natural modesty makes his muscles shift at the knowledge he's been positioned for display.

Then short, even fingernails draw parallels with the vein under his cock, and the shame curls up and dies. Heat. Desire. His hips pushing up. He's spent the day pressed down and restrained, feeling like a seventeenth-century enchanter flattened by slightly-less-foolish-than-usual Muggles under weighted boards, wanting all the time, allowed no completion.

Long fingers dance over his narrow chest, and barely post-adolescent

barely post-virginal

nipples that haven't yet learned that being touched is a pleasure and not a threat, nipples that are slightly bruised besides their natural oversensitivity, draw into defensive puckers, only encouraging the intrusive hands to first flatten on his pectorals then draw closed, like lotuses reversing their petals, to cage the pale sallow-rose flesh between them. The hands pull, and Severus rocks forward with them, further off balance than ever, his head twisting to one side as his teeth try to trap a pained, overpleasured moan that will be all too audible to everyone but him.

Surely it's the Dark Lord who touches him so. Surely those bony, spare fingertips can belong to no other. Surely? Severus feels like a whore.

Lucius wonders, over the jump of his cock inches from Narcissa's robed hip, if Severus realizes that everyone in the room but himself can hear his sharp, panicked panting, the heaving gasps of a trapped animal. He wants to take Severus, take him with a firm spearing of cock between those narrow, tension-dented thighs and then take him for his own. Dear, look what followed me home. Lucius wants. Lucius wishes. Lucius feels the urgent charge of possessiveness under his robes. In short, Lucius is developing a thing for Severus, in the offensive Muggle-derived parlance of today's second-year Hogwarts students, and he's starting not to care who can see the evidence in the fall of his robe.

Fingers on his face again, making him jerk – then hold tensely still for the testing touch that will follow. Still enough to show he knows better. Nails trace the edges of his lips, chapped and swollen – he reflexively licks them again.

A thin, stiff hand encourages his mouth to part, then insists. He closes it again and he's slapped. He nearly falls. An open hand should not trouble him so much after a childhood's worth of his father's fists. But he can't see it coming, he can't turn to avoid the blows aimed expertly for the soft part of the cheek, where it hurts the most and makes

the blood bloom beautifully dark under parchment-thin skin

his eyes blindly fly open and then squeeze shut against the sharp sting. Does he hear laughter, muffled and distorted by the spells settling on him thick as flies? Or only his own blood speeding through traumatized capillaries? He's slapped again. Again. Again and harder. He knows who he's defying, knows he should never have annoyed him enough to be struck. Just before the last one falls, his lips are parted, stretching, burning, his jaw gaping idiotically. The shame begins to fester and poisonously rot.

It's fingers first, he's certain, that lie like dead stick insects wrapped in kid leather on his obedient tongue for a moment, but what comes next batters in thickly, flattening his lips against his teeth. He can't taste to be sure whether it's some foolish rubber replica or real and turgid flesh that's invading – surely it can't be that big – but it pushes to his throat, making him choke as his chin grows wet, thrusting in firmly as he feels his lungs lock under the onslaught. He has to quell the panic. Has to not think about his gag reflex (too late too late) or consider what's now in a position to force its way down his throat. Surely the silkiness against his raw lips means it's a cock in his mouth.

The fingers are drawing smoke-curls on his chest again, making him twitch when they brush the shrinking vulnerability of taut nipples. Then his mouth is empty, his chin wetter than before, and a sweep of robe along his thigh alerts him to movement. He writhes, mouth still open

Earlier, Severus asked Lucius whether it was true that the Dark Lord had established two rules for the evening, or he'd just been told that to trouble him. Lucius assured him it was quite true, but deigned to remind him that things like “don't bite” and “do as you are directly or indirectly told” applied too – they were just too obvious to speak. Severus had looked chagrined, and Lucius had not quite suppressed the urge to pat him on the head

because he knows that if he closes it, he'll automatically violate the simpler of the two orders he's been given for this Saturday evening's entertainment – and fail his proof of dedication.

Don't swallow, he was told, and when you feel –

When he feels his fingers slicked, he's to do with them – do what Lucius is now leaning forward eagerly to watch his face while he does. Narcissa, although still perched pertly on his knee, which she claims is meant to conserve chairs in the slightly overfilled parlor, is tilting now gracefully to one side to see from another angle – he knows exactly which part she'll be wanting to watch.

Severus thinks for a moment he won't be able to do it, and he's statuary-still even when the wash of faint cool slickness abruptly coats his hands. But the hand of the Dark Lord rests on his neck, the thumb at his nape, giving him wordless permission to straighten a little – Severus is grateful for the touch, however it first makes him startle, and at once he turns his hands chafingly – he couldn't do this if his wrists were crossed, he has to use every inch of the rope between them to get his fingers down – twisting so one shoulder rises and shoving the shrivelfig-stained middle finger into the resisting tightness in the cleft of his bony arse.

He wants to, can't, bite down to help him contain

Lucius cranes yet more forward in hopes of hearing

the treacherous grunt that would turn into a dishonorable moan as he forces in the ink-marked index finger too, and holds it there, his thighs quivering now, wrists throbbing against the tightness of his bonds. It hurts. He doesn't move. No one ever said he had to, just that his own fingers had to be inside him, that this which he'd find throat-achingly shameful even alone in bed would be taken as proof of loyalty.

He swears to himself as he shakes with humiliation and resolve that he's going to make a study of stopping anyone ever from so easily learning the thing he'll hate. Even if it's worth proving his loyalty, even if it's worth this gorge-rising, face-heating shame, worth feeling like a ridiculous, ungainly, sluttish creature with his own hand spreading his hole and his mouth open like a lazy imbecile trying to catch flies. Never such invasion again.

He nearly falls, is certain that with the jerk of his arms he has torn himself, when something thick and eager touches his face.

He doesn't, somehow, want to be the first, though Narcissa touches his arm inquiringly – he wants to be toward the end of the line, to see Severus already used and already soiled and already debauched. To touch a young man already touched and already made to be known.

He can't taste, can't smell, can only feel. He can't hear the sliding, slapping that he muffled with his pillow after third year. So it might not be what he's clearly meant to think it is. It may be that they're gathered around laughing at what he thinks is happening while they idly flick spoonfuls from lukewarm soup bowls at his open mouth. So he defiantly comes to no conclusion. He gags a little, feeling liquid drip from his mouth and bead slowly on his chest, running down the sweat-gleaming trail of hair above his yearning cock. His mouth stays wide, even as his nose starts to feel unpleasantly constricted, unwillingly catching what he can't see or hear to avoid.

He was told not to swallow. After even the first moment of being brought in naked and exposed, he knew it would be too shameful to fail at this. If he can't do it –

The Dark Lord's fingers stay on his shoulder, like a master's hand on a protegee who has made him proud.

The Dark Lord's fingers stay on Severus's shoulder, like a master's hand on a posing dog from some awkward show breed. Lucius half-expected Severus to fail the test of composure before now. Does he know that the penalties would be – severe, but nothing permanent? Or does he imagine some dire fate like expulsion from the ranks?

He knows the consequences if his composure shatters, if he swallows the liquid now heavy as mercury in his mouth. Know they'll be dire.

But it's gone from threatening to choke him to doing it in truth, his breathing consumptively catching, when

Lucius approaches him, stepping boldly forward, the sight of the creaminess pooling around Severus's tongue making his loins stir to claim that mouth, driving the puddle of other men's come from it to coat Severus's jaw and run onto his chest like candle's wax.

And then their Lord speaks. He says


something Severus can't make out, but he thinks he can hear the laughter in any case – until the thin hand laces into his hair and pulls him inexorably back to the snapping point. His discs twinge their way into swift hot agony as his ankles strain, the tops of his feet taking his weight when his legs can't double any more. He painfully breaks his self-inflicted vow of silence

and the sensual sounds of his throat locking with a click and his lungs fighting for air past the come and the moans of harpstring pain make Lucius throb – but the Dark Lord's words were, “Observe, everyone, that your master rewards … patience.”

“My Lord?” he murmurs, a cultured sotto voce, pausing for this exchange with the grace of an excellent waltzer although he pulses like a randy boy to bedeck Severus once more, to bring his ritual humiliation to its perfect completion.

The Dark Lord produces his wand and turns it slowly. “Do you want him now, Lucius? Or shall we clean him up and send him to your bedroom? A fine little toy for you and your fine tigress?”

Narcissa, socially exquisite as ever, laughs like a sweet bell and curtsies like a practiced coquette, and he is distracted from his desire for an instant by sheer pride in her. But he answers: “I am proud to share in something you dictated for your initiate, my Lord.”

The high laugh draws chalkboard-dust down his spine as it always does. “Well said,” and the Dark Lord lets go, saying


the first thing Severus hears under his own clotted wheezing when sound comes flooding back: “Have him, then” – and the hand in his hair lets go, sending him pitching forward against someone's robes. This time he will not be able to imagine the fluid is anything but what it is, ejaculate working its way to his windpipe – but gravity lets some of it fall between his burning knees as he feels the latest part fine robes with a sweep, gloved hands brushing his wet cheeks as trousers are drawn open. This one he can't mistake when his nose bumps belly and his cheeks brush hips. This one fucks the thick wetness from his sore mouth in controlled advances and withdrawals, and a hand holds his head in place as he tries to reinsert the fingertip that came loose from the constriction of his arse as he fell. He must look as though he's fucking himself with eagerness – and the thought of that locks his airways at last, even as the last of the warm fluid is deposited in spurts on the back of his tongue where, if he could taste, all would taste of bitterness.

He falls when he's released, just catching himself on a forearm as his bonds release themselves, and is given over to the deep roaring coughs that are the near edge of vomiting. The knot at the back of his head parts, and he sees the cunningly fitted pieces of a polished parquet floor.

When he looks up, Bellatrix Lestrange – Bellatrix fucking Lestrange, who is too good for anyone but her husband and always has been –

Bellatrix is offering Severus a basin of water, and Lucius can see in the set of the corners of the young man's eyes that he recognizes the significance of this. Macnair waits with a cloth. With imperial abruptness, Severus uses them both, wiping his face with obvious disgust, shoving his hair back.

Lucius steps forward with


a robe, suddenly draped around his shoulders, startles him into a cattish half-leap and his abrupt turn shows it to be held by Lucius Malfoy, poncy prat who has barely deigned to notice Severus before today. Severus pulls the robe close around himself and shoves his arms through its too-short sleeves, belting it quickly. He won't look at the mess on the floor, not even as he rises. Won't give them the satisfaction.

And a hand rests on his head. Some instinct stops his flinch from this one.

“You have done well,” says his new Lord. That's all. He raises his hands like a priest drawing down silence before a sacrifice, and then disintegrates into black smoke that ripples instantaneously away, leaving his followers

those who believe in him, believe in the power of what they accomplish by giving up a little of their dignity for the chance to fight to gain it all back

including the newest and most come-covered, standing in the large parlor with the furniture shoved to the walls. The atmosphere changes palpably as everyone relaxes, and Severus finds himself the object of approving smiles from people who rarely considered him worth a glance before. He roughly ducks his head from them. His back ripples, a feeling like taut standing hackles lying down flat.

Lucius places a hand on his shoulder, and Severus can hear the smile in his voice, although only cultivated coolness (prat) shows on his face.

“I'll take you back to your dormitory now, shall I?” says Lucius.


---


Comments 
25th July 2011 16:13
Very lovely and hot! The writing is exquisite! I enjoyed this a lot, especially Lucius' thoughts and feelings. I don't know why but I think Lucius would desire Severus more than vice versa as illogial as it sounds ...
28th July 2011 00:31
I really have to agree on that ... Severus is just so ... prickly. :p Thank you!
25th July 2011 17:28
Oh gods, this is gorgeous and so hot.

(Also, this made me giggle “no, actually I'd rather not be your sex toy tonight, let's play checkers instead” and made me desperately want to read fic where this actually happened ;-) )
28th July 2011 00:31
Careful -- that's a tempting, tempting bunny.

Thank you!
24th August 2011 19:02
Beautiful writing. The seamless shift between perspectives made for a stunning overall perspective. I could swear that I saw the candlelight flickering in the room.
24th August 2011 19:10
You made my day by saying it was seamless. :) Thanks!
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