InsaneJournal

[Fic] Heart Stops Beating (Narcissa/Severus, NC-17)
Title: Heart Stops Beating
Author: Envinyatar (aka envinyatar15)
Pairing: Narcissa/Severus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: adultery
Word Count: 2,351
Summary: When darkness falls and he is in his rooms, sometimes there is a knock on his door.

Notes: Written for the bottomsnape Fantasy Fest, for prompt #4 - Severus bottoms to a woman, requested by def_devil. I hope this does the trick :) Title is a line from Emiliana Torrini's "Heartstopper". A huge thank you to zebraspots05 for her invaluable beta work! Originally posted here, April 13, 2007.

For 50scenes: #02 vow; 15pairings: #02 secret sin.


When darkness falls and he is in his rooms, sometimes there is a knock on his door.

Almost every night he lies awake, staring holes into the air and unable to give in to the hell that is sleep. Often he wonders whether it will be one of those nights when she comes to him, the tension in his muscles, born from hope and anticipation, only dissolving once she has entered his room, his heart hammering so loudly in his chest he fears it might explode. She knows she doesn’t have anything to fear from him. Since the night he vowed to protect her son with his life, she presents another side of herself to him. She skilfully hides this side with everyone else, wrapping herself in layers of coldness and distance, but she needs a break from the tension that her body endures day after day. He is her release – just like she is his.

For him, though, she is much more.

Tonight is one of those nights. He lies in bed; the moon shines into his room, illuminating the worn furniture in a pale light too weak, and yet too bright for the ragged room and its single inhabitant. Shadows are moving against the walls, and he is shivering from the ice that burns his insides after he has been forced to use the Killing Curse against an innocent victim. Night brings forth the conscience that he controls so wholly during the day; it always breaks free in the darkness.

She is the only one able to edge out the nightmares and the cold.

The knock is light, as it always is with her; her true nature emerges with this little gesture, this little sound she makes. She is made of stealth, yes, but the stealth melts so easily if just a certain point has been reached. She has been taught to be arrogant and unbreakable, to be the perfect Pureblood wife, but she is more, so much more. She is not unbreakable and indefinitely strong: she is human. Deep down she is soft and gentle and apprehensive, everything her family did not want her to be, and all her upraising and her experience has not fully obliterated this softness.

The door opens, and a stripe of light is visible before a silent shadow covers it and the door is shut again. Bare feet tap over the floor, barely audible, but he hears them with his practised ears. The steps become louder until a figure moves into his vision – a pale, blonde beauty with fine, aristocratic features he has grown to appreciate so much. There was a time when he was disgusted by everything that had to do with being Pureblood, but no more – he is past such aversions, past caring for such trifles. Fighting for two sides in two wars has taught him much about pedigree – it's not as important as conservative families try to make it out. Severus knows that now.

He knows he would be able to scare her off her with the slightest movement, but no – it is not worth losing one of the few people in his life he trusts. She is bound to him as he is bound to her, and this simple fact is the basis of their interactions.

He stays still, eyes turned up to the ceiling, fearing that tensing only a muscle of his body would chase her away. She comes to him when she is the most breakable; sometimes, the loneliness is too much for her to bear. Both her husband and her son are taken away from her – owned by death impersonated – and whom does she have to turn to for consolation? No one else is allowed to see her this way – only him, and this is an honour, he believes.

He turns his head as the woman slowly sits down on the edge of his bed and his mattress sinks under her weight. With a glance that is supposed to deny his need, he drinks in her form: the strong legs, the stomach that is only a little rounded even after bearing one child, the arms and hands that look as if they are able to strangle a person without any effort, the neck that looks almost too fragile in comparison. She is wearing nothing but a thin nightdress covering her smooth skin, skin he longs so much to touch again, but doesn’t dare to.

She stares at him with icy blue eyes, and again he is shivering – but this time it is not from the coldness that comes from the inside but from the heat that develops in his groin and spreads throughout his entire body. He wants her, but she is not his to take.

He is hers.

Finally – he has not moved so much as a finger yet – she leans down to him, her every motion carefully measured and controlled. He sees the effort it takes to remain so cold, but he hopes before the night is over, she will have come undone. She needs this, needs to let go, or she will soon be a broken shell.

If she breaks, he will as well.

His breathing stills as he waits for her to decide on her course of action. He can practically hear what she is thinking, how the endless inner debate of whether this is right or wrong begins and how she forcefully shuts it up while she lowers her head, coming closer and closer to him. One of her hands comes up to touch his chest laid bare for her to appreciate, and he starts at the sensation of her little hand stroking his upper chest, playing with his nipples. He knows he is skinnier than her husband used to be, less muscular, less beautiful, too, with the scars running across his chest, but perhaps there is a little part in her that allows her to see past her ideal.

Perhaps.

If there is not and her husband finally returns from the living dead, she will learn to accept less, sooner or later. Too late for Severus, certainly, but perhaps then she will see him in a different light than she does now.

He keeps staring up into her beautiful, strong eyes that promise so much and so little at the same time. He sees how she fights herself over what she is about to do – she does every time – but in the end need wins, and finally her lips claim his in a small kiss. She is teasing him with nips at his mouth, then wanders down to his throat, his ear, back to his mouth. He still does not move a muscle for fear of breaking the little control she has over her contradictory feelings. She comes to him out of her own free will; it is her decision what they do. He will never disrespect her by taking the initiative without her explicit consent.

Her hand maps his upper body, shoulders, arms, then slowly makes its way lower, underneath the blanket. She caresses the area just above where his cock awakens, stiffening in response to her ministrations, then his hips, then his thighs, always careful not to touch him where he longs for it the most. Her mouth plays with his, her tongue traces his lips; she coaxes them open, then, when he complies, begins the slow dance of tongues, slowly deepening the kiss.

He is lost to the sensations of the kiss, nearly forgetting the hand playing in his neither regions – nearly. The conscious part of his mind is reminded of its skill as a finger moves up the length of his cock and circles the tip. He moans in answer, the sound stifled by her mouth on his. Of their own accord, his arms encircle her, and she reacts by moving on the bed, pushing back the cover with her feet and coming to rest on top of him, carefully positioning herself above his erection. He is leaking by now, sweating from pent-up desire, and as she sits up on his hips, looking directly into his eyes, he sees the same need reflected in them. Playing with him, taking from him and giving to him, never fails to arouse her, and this is proven once more by the rich blue that her eyes are now. He does not see it, but he does not need the light to know how the colour of her eyes changes with her mood. He has seen it often enough when she was with her husband.

The sting he feels in his chest at the reminder of Lucius is overridden by the sight of her touching herself. She loves putting herself on display, loves how he follows her every movement with his eyes. She undresses and tosses her nightdress to the ground. Her thumb caresses her core while her index finger slowly fucks her cunt, spreading her juices, readying herself for him. She throws back her head with the beautiful, straight blonde hair, baring her throat to him, moaning in abandon at the tension that takes over her body. The speed of her ministrations increases until she is panting, gasping for air. Her other hand is touching her breast, circling her nipple, and he licks his lips in animalistic hunger that threatens to undo his control.

He can practically feel how the heat spreads from her core through her body. Just before he know she will be gone, he takes action for the first time this night. One of his hands pulls her hand away from her cunt and to his mouth. She stops her movement, looking down at him with gorgeous wide eyes, and while they stare at each other in wonderment that seems to never quite go away, he darts out his tongue and licks her hands clean. He moans around her fingers as he tastes her flavour, and her eyes want to flutter closed, but she keeps them open and steady on him. Once he is finished, he lets her hand drop, instead covering her knees with his hands, moving them up her thigh and down again. He is not pushing her for anything, knows that any motion could be the wrong one, and she could still jump up and run from him, but he needs to state his wishes, needs to tell her what he wants.

She does not run. What she does is raise herself a little, position him at her entrance, and lower herself on his length, taking him in and embracing him with her warmth.

They both groan as he slides in deeper and deeper. Finally she is seated in his lap, where she pauses for a second to allow them to adjust, then begins moving in little rocking motions, up and down. His hands come up to play with her breasts, caressing, kneading, pulling, pushing; she uses her own hands to support herself, resting them on his chest for better balance. He loves this tiny gesture of trust more than anything else about her; with her, nothing is easy, and one has to learn to appreciate the little things.

He is perfectly happy about those little things, because he does not expect more. This is what he tells himself, at least.

The tension in their bodies heightens quickly. Their life is full of it, and release is what they need. Soon she is moving with abandon. He slides almost all the way out, then she's thrusting down again, taking him in as deep as possible. He feels his approaching orgasm, his tightening muscles, and moves one of his hands down to play with her clit, rubbing her core with little flicks of his fingers. They are both sweating and panting, fighting for breath; the world narrows down until nothing else except themselves matters anymore. Then, with one last down-thrust, he has reached the point of no return and empties himself into her, crying out, and with a last flick of her clit, she too whimpers and is pushed over the edge. For what feels like an eternity, everything is black, and breathing is difficult, too difficult to return to normal. Relief washes through him. Forgetfulness he had sought, forgetfulness he has found.

When he is aware of his surroundings again, she is resting on top of him with her eyes closed, their bodies still joined. He tightens his arms around her, never wanting to let her go – but the same instance he remembers she is not his. She will never be.

But he is hers, and that should count for something, too, he thinks. It does not, though, and he knows it. Which doesn't mean the heaviness that settles on his chest is any less crushing.

After a few minutes, she stirs in his arms, and he lets her go as if she has burned him. And she has; her unbridled passion is always too much for him to bear, almost more than the overwhelming loneliness he feels the rest of the day. She is burning him, because whenever she goes, he is reminded of how he will never be the only one in her thoughts. She seeks distraction, sometimes absolution; the former he can give her, but never the latter.

She rolls down from him, and they both sigh quietly at the loss as he slips out from inside of her. Silently, she performs a cleaning charm on them both, gets up from the bed to pick up her nightdress from where it landed and, naked as she is, walks to the door, tap, tap, tap. He stares at her back while she steps away from him; goose bumps form on his skin, his heart stops beating, crying out in anguish.

At the door she pauses for a moment and looks back at his form, the light casting her shadow into the room she is about to leave behind. They both know what it means: she will be back. She doesn't need to say it.

Then she slips through the door, closing it behind her, and everything is dark again.