Lucius isn’t good at keeping promises. Not these days. But this one is easy. He shoves Lestrange off his lap and drags him to his feet. Lestrange sways and staggers and giggles right up until the moment Lucius shoves his face against the back of the chaise and uses magic to strip him of his robes and underclothes.

Azkaban leaves scars. So many scars. But despite the alcohol, Lestrange has put on enough weight since his escape that he no longer looks like a walking skeleton. His robes have been hiding a pert, plush arse – one that wiggles invitingly as he spreads his thighs wider and presents himself like a bitch in heat. He’s slurring encouragements into the cushions, begging Lucius to fuck him. To fuck him hard and fast like he’s always wanted, and please won’t Lucius just hurry the fuck up already.

Lucius snorts. He flicks his wand, preparing Lestrange with a muttered spell. He palms the man’s arse with one hand while opening his robes with the other – just enough to get his cock out. He can see Lestrange’s hole, furled and pink and wet with lubricant. He rubs the tip of his erection through the slick, coating himself thoroughly before pressing in. Lestrange moans loudly as his body gives way; his spine arches as he pushes back onto Lucius, driving him in deeper. His hands scrabble at the back of the chaise and Lucius smooths his hands over the expanse of his back, giving him a chance to adjust before he grasps his hips to hold him in place.

He keeps his word. He fucks Lestrange hard and fast; hard enough that his moans and pleas turn to sobs and screams. He stares down at where their bodies join – at the stretched rim of Lestrange’s hole as he takes Lucius’ cock, and at the bruises forming under his fingers. He can hear the wet noise of Lestrange’s erection slapping against his stomach with every thrust, and his belly tightens with lust. He wants this. He wants Lestrange under him, hot and pliant and willing. He wants to know all the ways he can take Lestrange apart and make him scream his name.

He frees one of his hands to twist it into Lestrange’s hair again, dragging the younger man back against his chest. The change in position makes his arse even tighter, and Lucius groans with it.

Lestrange’s face is flushed and tear-streaked, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his open mouth. He twists to kiss Lucius, wet with tears and saliva, and Lucius returns it, sliding his hand from Lestrange’s hair to his throat. He squeezes lightly, and Lestrange gasps. Trembles.

“Come for me,” Lucius hisses, squeezing harder. “Just like this. Untouched. Come for me, whore.”

Lestrange chokes. He scrabbles at Lucius’ fingers, gasping for air as his body tightens impossibly. His orgasms paints ribbons of white over the back of the chaise, and Lucius releases his throat to stroke down the length of his chest and belly, and he lets Lestrange flop back against him as he finds his own completion. Lestrange moans at the feel of it, looking up at Lucius with glazed eyes and a languid smile. He’s such a good little slut.

Lucius will have him again. Narcissa be damned, he’ll fuck Lestrange in every room in the damn manor. He needs to.