Dark Side of the Sun (Lucius/Harry NC-17)
Title: Dark Side of the Sun
Author: stonegrad
Prompt: 101. Lucius is actually one of Albus' spies working for the Light. Harry is captured by Death Eaters and held captive in a Death Eater hideout. They can't move him to Voldemort's headquarters because the countryside is crawling with Order members looking for Harry, and Lupin has their hiding place staked out. Lucius is with his Death Eaters buddies when Harry is captured and he's held up in the hideout with the others. Now Lucius is the only one who can rescue the boy! What does he do and how does he get Harry to trust him?
Pairing: Lucius/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,965
Summary: You can't always sit on the fence forever, but if you're going to choose a side, you might as well get something out of them before you do...
Warnings: mild dub con, and a silk ribbon
Author's Note: I took so many liberties with this prompt that it no longer actually resembles it - more like it's stolen the orginal's boots and run off to drink rum in the Caribbean, without any consideration of plot. Thanks to Kristin for her blazingly quick beta, just when the panic was well and truly setting in.




Dark Side of the Sun

1.

"Why are you really doing this?”

Movement of long, black-gloved fingers as they link together on the table, and Harry raises his head from the sight just in time to catch the tail end of a smile on Lucius' thinned lips, curled up the corner with slightly too much force; sincere, yes, but only one step removed from openly mocking.

"Because I can” - a simple statement for a simpler truth, the words formed carefully and delivered in the soft, clipped tone of a man who is in total control; Lucius' grey eyes narrow, gaze flitting from Harry's face to the bed with an honest nonchalance that is somehow more intimately terrifying than any pretense.

But communication is key, Harry knows, in keeping him out of that bed for as long as possible; it doesn't matter what is said, just that something is – just that Lucius is distracted long enough, and this torture is postponed until…

Until what…? Until the Order sweep in and rescue him?

Harry doesn't think they're coming, but he has to try.

"So, not because Vo- your Lord asked you to? Won't he have a problem with that? Not following orders - overstepping your boundaries and all…” A stab in the dark, taken hastily but said with all the brash, Gryffindor boldness that he can summon; carelessly direct.

Again, the corner of Lucius' mouth curls up, his expression taking on a warm, yet distant curiosity – humoring him…

But not rising to the bait.

"Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement for all involved,” Lucius murmurs, and looks across at Harry from beneath his eyelids, every movement simmering with quiet expectation and infallible self-assuredness, a certain irresistible awareness - as if the two of them are already so familiar that he knows every step in this dance.

Harry swallows.

"Even you,” the blond adds after a moment of silence, and returns his gaze to the bed, running one gloved thumb over the other where his hands are still pressed together on the tabletop; a strangely relaxed gesture in a conversation that, Harry feels, is anything but.

"You'll have to drug me to make me like it!” he snarls, and regrets the words instantly; Lucius' face takes on a mask of blank intensity, his voice dipping into a low purr, airily polite but oh so forceful.

"Oh, Harry,” he breathes, and his lips fit around the name in a manner that makes it seem almost obscene, as if he can somehow instigate an act of sexual deviancy by those two syllables alone. "There will be no need to resort to such… commonplace acts.”

The way he says it adds a delicate distaste to the notion, as if he considers such things as something done only by the lower classes of society, by crude incompetents – only a certain refinement, a dislike of such clearly unsubtle emotion, stops him from sounding truly insulted.

"No spells, no potions…” Lucius unlinks his hands, splaying his fingers over the table and dropping his gaze to them, before looking up; Harry flinches, but does not turn his face away from the examination of those brilliantly grey eyes, slicing into him with a surgical precision that makes him feel as if, somehow, Lucius has managed to climb right into his skin with him.

"Just… us.”

Lucius draws the last word out; lets it roll off his tongue in a near-whisper, low and impossibly sensual – Harry can almost see his plans swirling away like smoke in the face of it.

He's doomed.


2.

"Keep fighting if you must,” Lucius purrs, gloved fingers cool on Harry's chin as they tip his head back with deliberate slowness, baring the pale lines of that throat like he is a sacrificial lamb about to be slaughtered; the blond is smiling, his expression one of fond amusement tempered, just ever so slightly, by the way his lips are parted to show the white flash of his teeth.

He tips his head to one side; places the softest of kisses against the side of Harry's jaw.

"At least then you can say that you tried;” added in a whisper, as Lucius' tongue flicks out briefly to touch the lobe of Harry's ear, disturbing warm, frightening in the way it does not stay, but moves slowly downwards; open-mouthed brushes of his lips over one cheekbone.

Harry closes his eyes, swallows; takes a breath.

"You won't break me.”

Lucius chuckles, running his fingers up the younger man's spine; feeling the shivers that rocket through the muscles surrounding the vertebrae, spilling out around the path he draws like shockwaves after an earthquake – even through the cloth of his robes, Harry fancies he can feel the scrape of nails barely constrained by leather.

"Yes,” Lucius says, and rests his palm at the back of Harry's neck, fingers curling and digging into the lightly tanned skin; the slightest application of pressure, and his captive wavers like a sapling in the breeze, chin forced against his chest, airways constricted just a little.

"I will.”

No room for doubts, no question in it; there is a disconcerting finality to the words, as if the end of the game has already been decided, and the victor pronounced.

Perhaps it has ended – perhaps he has won.

When nimble fingers undo the buttons at the top of his robe, Harry's hands curl into fists, his jaw setting stubbornly; the fabric parts easily, pushed aside, and the fingers continue, loosening his shirt until there is a strip of bare chest for them to press against, resting perfectly still, the tip of Lucius' ring finger just touching one nipple.

The man himself is silent, brimming with a quiet, assured energy; chest pressed to Harry's back, chin almost resting in that nest of unruly, jet-black hair – smile always lurking just behind the thin compression of his lips, like something just out of sight in a deeper part of a lake, hidden where the water turns to a dark, dense black.

Waiting… just waiting.

Slowly, easily, Lucius' hand moves, pulling both the robe and the shirt back far enough to allow them to slip from Harry's shoulders, spilling down his arms to come to a stop around their feet; his eyes peruse the flat, gold-tinged skin so newly revealed, lingering over the fine curves of Quidditch-sculpted muscle, the jutting shoulder-blades.

Harry jumps when a warm mouth is pressed to the first visible protrusion of his spine, teeth sinking in on either side of the bone in a sudden flash of sharp, stinging pain – only Lucius' iron grip on the back of his neck stops him from jerking away.

"Fuck you,” he growls, and flushes with sudden awareness as the fabric of his trousers rubs against his cock, not entirely flaccid… such a traitorous thing.

Lucius does not reply; only pulls back and lets his hand slide down Harry's stomach in one lazy movement, ignoring the way the younger man tenses like a strung bow as first his little finger, then the others, dip underneath the waistband of his trousers – and there he pauses once more, palm just above one hip, the tips of his fingers resting in coarse, black hair.

Despite himself, Harry feels his cock rise further, as if seeking to curve up and touch the cool leather that is not near enough - and yet, at the same time, entirely too close for comfort.

There is a rush of warm air against his skin as Lucius breathes out, lacing the sound with a soft, barely perceptible purr as the tip of his nose runs up the side of Harry's neck – every movement so intimate, so tailored to the situation at hand; sensual, attractive.

Dangerous.

"You seem flustered,” Lucius murmurs, the flirting mockery surfacing and instilling itself in the smoky warmth of his voice; a brush of vividly perverse and meticulously crafted familiarity – exerting, once more, his complete and utter control…

As if there was ever any doubt.

The hand moves again, sliding down just that tiny bit further, until the tip of one finger brushes the head of Harry's cock; the younger man jolts like a skittish horse - like something wild, something terrified.

Lucius' eyes are hooded, his palm still heavy on the back of Harry's neck, lips resting just under one ear; he smiles.

"No vicious repartee, Harry?” A brush of leather down the vein at the base of his cock, barely even touch enough to be constituted as contact… but startlingly intense all the same.

"I must confess… I'm almost disappointed.”

There is a touch of wistfulness to the declaration, a pleased softness, as if it were somehow a point of interest between them – perilously truthful, shockingly direct.

Harry bites his lip until it bleeds.


3.

Rub of silk against his wrists, and the muscles in Harry’s shoulders are starting to strain, pain flaring sharply at the base of his neck and moving lazily down his spine in flittering sparks of heat; his head is tipped back so far he can barely swallow, the carpet soft against his bare feet.

He thinks the worse part, though, of this position, is the fact that the toe of one of Lucius’ black-booted feet is resting easily against the inner part of his right thigh, keeping his legs spread – allowing clear view of the way his cock is pressing up distinctively under the tightly-stretched cloth.

There are no words, and certainly no conversation. Whatever had to be said has been said, and Harry knows that his captor will brook no intrusion into the deafening silence, the stilted hush of their breathing – his own sharp, sudden, frightened; and Lucius’ a barely discernable hiss, drawn deliberately through his teeth in the way of a predator who has cornered his prey, and no longer has any need to keep quiet.

But what worries him more, is that even with the firelight bringing that partly undone white shirt to a glow, the brightest point in the room is still the impossible whiteness of Lucius’ skin - the curve of his throat, his jaw, cheekbones; the pale hair tied loosely back with a stray coil of silky black ribbon that Harry, for one heart-stopping moment, thought was going to end up around his own neck.

It isn’t fair, somehow, how relaxed he looks, how terribly… untouched. As if all of this is just a passing fancy, a trinket held in his palm for a heartbeat before being dismissed as nothing more than a combination of glitter and dust; Harry wonders how many times he’s done this before, how many people he’s broken – because he has no doubt that that’s what happened to them, these nameless specters lingering in the air between them…

They broke; every single one of them.

And who’s he to think he’ll be any different?

Flash of black as Lucius’ gloved hands move through the air, and Harry’s eye slide from that impassive face to watch the long, pianist fingers curl around the first still-done-up button of his shirt, the careless twist of his wrist as it pops free.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul – that what you want to know you can find there, as long as there’s really something there to be found… but it’s not the eyes that matter, not here, not to him; the flat, distant glimmer of irises that slide from pure silver to near black – they don’t give away anything.

Fingers skitter down the smooth chest, muscles tightening as Lucius rolls his shoulders back and allows the shirt to fall, the spread of fabric nestling right up against Harry’s toes; a thumb brushes the jagged rise of a scar, and god, the straight, tautness of that body is just so military, so impersonal, even though Lucius is touching himself.

So cold.

Not that it stops his cock from straining upwards, because it’s Lucius bloody Malfoy after all, and no one’s ever made a secret of the fact that he’s fucking beautiful…

The boot on his thigh presses again, and Harry spreads his legs just a little bit more, muscles straining – his eyes are locked on Lucius’ hips, on the seven fine white scars decorating the right and the long, jagged line of what looks like a old knife wound, trailing over the left and down beneath the waistband of his trousers; his fingers twitch in their bonds, itching to touch even as another thrill of fear winds it’s way up his spine.

A moment… a moment of pure terror as Lucius removes his foot and then drops, with enough elegance to make the action seem completely boneless; knees touch the ground either side of Harry’s thighs, ankles locking around his own and keeping his legs firmly in place.

Harry can feel the heat of Lucius’ skin, chest impossibly smooth where it presses against his own – his face flushes red with anger and embarrassment; the shear absurdity of having a grown man on his lap.

Lucius twists his hips, and Harry swears he can taste the amusement when it brings their cocks firmly into contact, fabric rubbing, an instant far to brief to bring anything more than hot, sudden spark.

He bites his bloody lip to keep the groan in.

But there’s a twist of muscle, a flex, and Lucius’ head drops to his throat, mouth sealing against the skin and it burns – perhaps not quite as much as hand gliding down his spine and tugging at his bound wrists, sliding unhurriedly past them after a moment to go under his waistband and splay over the cheeks of his arse; because that, that is fire and promise and…

Flash of teeth against his skin, then suction, then teeth, tongue, and fuck, Lucius is going to leave some nasty bruises on his throat – but it’s not like that even matters.

Harry sucks air in past his teeth, trying to snap his hips forwards so he can grind against the man above him – a single gloved hand puts a quick end to that idea, but it’s okay because Lucius angles his hips and snaps them forwards and rubs, like an overgrown cat, but with so much more grace and so much more purpose and holy fuck!

He moans, letting his head drop forwards against Lucius’ chest, breath hot and shuddery against the pale skin; and he wants to touch it, he wants to touch it but he can’t – so he twists his head, just a bit, and licks.

Lucius tastes like mint and brandy and the faintest touch of sweat; something clean and crisp and, god, trust the man to be a living, breathing addiction – the fingers around Harry’s hip tighten, and the pressure against him increases and he’s going to die from this, isn’t he?

The hot mouth leaves his throat, there’s a breath against his ear, and Harry raises his head blindly, all thoughts of fight forgotten; he whimpers at the first, tantalizing brush of those lips against his own, there and gone again in the blink of an eye…

And then back in a sudden, shocking collision, soft and firm all at once, slow and calm but no less dominating than the hand on his hip – a methodical, absolutely nauseatingly brilliant way of kissing, as Lucius’ hips continue to move against him, harder now; he gasps.

Not wasting the opportunity, there’s a warm tongue sliding over his lips and then through them in time with his exhale, quick and strong and insistent and inviting as it inspects every inch of his mouth before coiling around Harry’s own, moving in time with the merciless grind of their bodies.

Harry’s whimper is lost somewhere between them, all sense of retaining even a scrap of dignity abandoned; he arches forwards, arms straining, the silken ties biting into his wrists as he tries to pull his hands free – not to fight, but to touch the pale skin pressing against him.

Lucius twists his hips again, hand sliding from Harry’s hip, fingers brushing the bulge of his cock before they undo the zip; Harry wrenches his head back, breathless and dizzy, as there’s a smooth rustle of fabric and then heat, wondrous, glorious heat as the last barrier between them is lost.

He moans, jerks, back snapping and throat laid bare as he comes, white light bursting behind his eyes; he barely catches the low growl Lucius makes against his neck, teeth digging into his skin as the blond shudders in one long, smooth motion.

Dazed, Harry tries to focus on the ceiling, swaying drunkenly above him; his hips move in one last, futile jolt, bringing him firmly into contact with Lucius’ still hard cock – he frowns.

“Wha-” he starts, but Lucius’ mouth is on his once more, cutting him off; a hand brushes the hair from Harry’s eyes.

"Sssh,” Lucius whispers, and it would be impossible not to hear the smirk in his voice. "We're not finished yet."


4.

“Harry! Harry!”

The wall is hard against his back, the stone rough enough to grate his skin even through his shirt; all his attention is focused on Lucius, wavering in and out of focus before him in time with the flashes of spellfire lighting up the night sky.

In the distance, he can see Lupin, blood making the right side of his face appear black as he fights – from somewhere beyond him, so faint he can barely hear it, Ron is screaming his name.

He looks back at Lucius.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, and it comes out sounding more innocently confused than demanding. “Why are you helping us?”

Two gloved fingers stroke down his cheek.

“Come now, Harry,” Lucius murmurs, and his lips have thinned into a wry smirk. “One cannot stay on the fence forever…”

~ fin