fic: begging softly (to be destroyed)

[human_veil]

begging softly (to be destroyed)
lucius/narcissa, explicit, 2.6k

Two nights, roughly twenty years apart.

tags/warnings: non-linear narrative, implied/referenced torture, (very soft) femdom, pegging, bondage.

Narcissa loops the last strap through a hook on their headboard, pulling tight as the leather wraps around her husbands’ wrists, holding them together. The binds are old, material worn and faded after years of use, but they’re a special pair. A sentimental pair: the thick binding strips some of the first they’d bought. Definitely the first meant for Lucius to wear—the dark, expensive leather tailored to his tastes.

Narcissa watches as Lucius tests them now: careful, calculated tugs of his wrists, the edge of leather digging into flesh. They’re tight; tied expertly. Leave Lucius with barely any room to move. Narcissa watches as realisation hits, grey eyes alight with something like relief as Lucius yields to his own position: restrained, completely.

At her mercy.

Narcissa smiles. She bends to kiss him, slow and sure, voice barely audible and lips still brushing his as she asks, “Are you alright, my darling?”  

 

The word yes ripped from his throat, half exhale, half moan. He squirms beneath her, forehead pressed to the pillow and hands clenched in the sheet. Narcissa smiles, her free hand rubbing soft, soothing circles against the small of Lucius’ back while the other moves to a steady rhythm, three fingers buried to the hilt: twisting, stretching, preparing.

“You look beautiful like this,” she tells him, and there’s a laugh to it. Quiet and carefree, void of any type of mockery. Another twist, then. Her fingers crooked upwards. It’s met with a groan, low and guttural, with the arch of Lucius’ back. “We should have done this sooner.” 

Another groan as she presses deeper, the ends of Lucius’ hair brushing her free hand as he shifts: a muddled attempt to move closer to her.

Narcissa takes it as affirmation.

 

The harness is a newer addition, as is the cream-coloured cock that hangs from it; both of them barely used before Lucius’ stint in Azkaban. Narcissa strokes it now, thin fingers applying lube as she takes in her husband’s body: spread out beneath her, hair a silver halo around his head, arms up and heels planted. He’s thinner than he used to be. Has more scars and darker demons; his presence like a shadow of the man that’d left the Manor more than a year ago.

It makes Narcissa’s heart ache in a way she is unused to.

“I missed you,” she tells him, and it sounds almost silly. Lucius has been home for weeks, now—the Dark Lord’s rise to power accelerated at her family’s own expense. But at least she’d been allowed this, Narcissa thinks, even if she’d been made to beg: Lucius’ life reduced to a bargaining chip, given in return for the ancestral home.

She’s said it already, the words. Said it plenty. Both quietly, intimately, as they’d laid side by side, his arms wrapped around her, body still broken from unhealed injuries, and loudly, fuelled by fury, the knowledge of their son’s anguish and what had caused it awakening a usually subdued fire inside her.   

Lucius doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have permission to. Still, she catches the twist of a wrist, the unintentional tug: binds shifting as if he’d intended to reach for her.

 

“Next time,” Narcissa says, “I think I should tie you up.”

It’s contemplative, almost a question. Her voice careful and curious. Lucius shivers beneath her and Narcissa’s eyebrows arch toward her hairline. Interesting, she thinks, one hand curling around his hip and squeezing, nails leaving half-moon marks on the skin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she says, and this time it’s more of a coo: soft and gentle but lightly teasing. Lucius nods his head in a miniscule act, as if the admission is reluctant, unwilling, and Narcissa swallows around the gasp in her throat, the want that pools in her stomach, white-hot and burning. It’s different, this, she thinks. Strange for Lucius to give up so much control. They’ve played with it before, of course; little moments that never last. Nothing close to what she sees in Lucius now—that veiled desire for complete surrender. She’s heady with the knowledge that he’d give the power to her.

Leaning forward, her mouth presses to Lucius’ shoulder: brief and fleeting. She lathers the dildo with lube once more, shifts so the silicone presses against Lucius’ entrance.

“Ready?”

 

Lucius is silent as she presses in, but his body speaks volumes; Narcissa well-versed in his quiet language. The twitch of expression, the arch of his back, the audible swallow, the clench of teeth, the curled fist, the closed eyes, the open mouth, the way tense muscle relaxes at her touch. She reads pleasure in the way he breaths, sees it in cool grey when his eyes meet hers, hears it in the low groan he lets escape.

“I want to hear you,” she warns him, aware that he’s holding back. Her hips stutter, pulling out and slipping in, each of her thrusts careful; a slowly simmering pressure. It’s quiet still, at first, but then it’s as if she’s flicked a switch, Lucius’ touch-starved body reacting in a way it hasn’t in years.

“Narcissa,” he says, breath hitched, voice thick and cracked, her name a half-prayer, half-plea. Narcissa leans over him, leans down, her mouth pressing kisses to his chest, his neck, his jaw, eyes closing as he says her name again: again, again, again, each cry punctuated with the snap of her hips.

“I’ve got you, darling,” she whispers, mouth to his ear, her voice a soothing drawl. That’s what this is about, Narcissa thinks. Not celebration, not relearning each other, not even a culmination of relief at being together after months of separation. No. It’s comfort. A reminder. That even when one breaks, the other doesn’t.

 

It’s an odd sensation, the harness. Not much for her own pleasure, but Narcissa doesn’t mind. Not when she can see so clearly what it does to Lucius: body tense and muscles clenched, skin flushed and sweaty, his breath loud and heavy.

“Narcissa,” he says, voice a choked gasp, muffled against the mattress. It’s followed by a string of obscenities, Lucius’ usual clipped tone gone completely as he swears. Narcissa can’t help the giggle: warm and enamoured, the sound carrying over the huffs of breath, the slap of skin.

“Next time,” she says again, pausing to slowly thrust forward, the cock a torturous tease as she slides it in, “I want you on your back.” Her left hand curls around Lucius’ ass, nails digging in as she holds tight, uses him as leverage. “So I can see your face.”

Lucius turns his head to the side, barely in sight as he looks at her. “You’re rather confident in your abilities,” he says, voice an imitation of his usual self: obviously out of breath even as he tries to hide it. “I don’t remember agreeing to a next ti—”

He cuts off with a half-gasp, half-groan, face slack and body taut. Narcissa arches a brow, pulling out to thrust back in; taking care to hit the same spot with added force. She watches Lucius’ forehead drop back to the mattress, long, blond hair falling off his shoulders and exposing the smooth span of his back, muscle rippling beneath flesh as he pushes back against her. She wants nothing more than to kiss him.

“What was that about a next time?”

 

She moves slow tonight. Careful. All too aware of her husband’s battered body. There are bruises: ugly purples and faded yellows and reds so dark they look black, scattered and stacked, evidence of what’s been done to his body. Not that the proof is something Narcissa needs—the image of Lucius shaking and twisting while tortured one that’s burnt into her memory, the echo of his screams, guttural and harrowing and ripped from him without consent, something she will never forget. 

She closes her eyes. Tries to will away the memory. Kisses him again: the corner of his mouth, the underside of his chin, down his neck, to the dip of his shoulder. More a press of her open mouth than anything else. He leans into her and she licks a strip across his collarbone and follows it with her teeth; leaves a mark along with the rest. Thinks at least some of them should be welcome. Wanted.

“Cissa,” comes Lucius’ voice, her name almost a question. Hesitant, like he knows he’s not been granted permission to talk but thinks he can do it anyway. 

Narcissa lets it slide, throat vibrating with an answering hum as her gaze flicks up, blue meeting grey. There’s a desire there that she recognises. That familiar want that swirls in his eyes, tightens his jaw. She knows that when she looks, she’ll see Lucius’ hands clutched in their binds, fingers twitching as he struggles for self control. He wants to touch her. Hold her. Tight and unrelenting, and maybe, she thinks, she shouldn’t have bound him this time, because she wants it, too. But then she remembers the look of relief. The way she knows he feels safe, secure, so long as she’s the one with control. 

“Soon,” Narcissa tells him, settling back against the mattress and picking up the pace. She wraps a hand around Lucius’ cock and his body jumps, binds jingling, the hiss that escapes her husband’s mouth a mix of pleasure and pain.   

 

“Please.”

He’s leaking, precome coating her hand as she works it over his shaft, each stroke in rhythm with her thrusts. She kisses the spot between his shoulder blades and asks, “Please, what, darling?” her voice tilted with that same teasing quality. Testing the waters.

Another shiver, more prominent this time. “More,” Lucius groans. There’s a desperate edge to it—one she’s almost surprised to hear. “Fuck. Cissa.” 

He’s strained, choked. Nearing incoherent. Narcissa rolls her hips and moans as the harness drags against her clit. She tightens her hand, doubles her efforts, says, “Come on, darling.” Another thrust—

 

“Narcissa.” A broken pant. Bordering on a beg. “Please.”

Narcissa relents. “Come for me.” 

Lucius does, whimpering as come coats her hand, his abdomen, her stomach: thick strips catching the edge of her negligée. Narcissa watches him tense and then relax, slowly fucking him through the aftershocks, until his body is oversensitive and unable to determine if it wants to move toward her or away. 

She pulls out carefully, slips the harness off with practiced ease, her gaze fixed on where Lucius lies: chest heaving, face flushed, hair sweaty and stuck to his skin. He looks at her through hooded eyes and Narcissa smiles. Knows the signs of euphoria; the way he floats in the afterglow.

She moves to unhook the restraints that tie his legs, and it’s with her calm instruction that he stretches them out, unmoving as she crawls back over his body, knees planted to either side of his torso and hands brushing the hair from his face. “Good boy,” she soothes, barely a whisper, and he whimpers again. Eyes shut as he leans up, toward her, a silent beg. 

She meets him half way, the kiss slow and sweet, her fingers cradling his jaw. Please, his body says when she pulls away, and this time Narcissa concedes: reaching to unloop the binds so his hands can drop. She smiles when he still doesn’t touch her. 

Her hands take hold of his, fingers linked before they inch down, the pads of her thumbs rubbing against the indents on Lucius’ wrists, the places where the skin’s grown red from pressure. She ignores the Dark Mark, skips his forearms and goes for the shoulders instead. The way she palms at the flesh a practiced act. Meant to ease the ache. 

“Go on,” she says, and it’s intoxicating. Having him like this. The harness was one thing, the pressure against her clit enough to make it enjoyable, but what Narcissa really loves is the power. Is the knowledge that Lucius would never take pleasure in submitting to anyone else like this: pliant and obedient of his own free will, for no other reason than that it pleases her. Than that that pleases him.

 

“That’s the only good idea your sister has ever had,” Lucius says, voice muffled, words mumbled as he kisses along her thigh, two fingers already buried in her cunt.    

Narcissa laughs. “Maybe we should say thank you,” she says, and isn’t surprised when he stills, looking up from where he’s lying between her legs to give her his best glare. It’s not half as frightening as it usually is. “What?” she asks, playing dumb, but he doesn’t take the bait. Turns instead back to the task at hand. 

She gets halfway through a, Scared she’ll call you my bitch again? before the words die in her mouth, replaced by a sharp gasp as Lucius adds his tongue to the mix: sucking her clit without preamble. She groans, hips bucking, and he pulls back to give her a twisted smile, almost as if to say, I win. Narcissa groans again—feigned annoyance, this time—and falls back against the bed.

“Bastard,” she says, the word catching in her throat as he does it again.

She knows she won’t last long.

 

“Easy,” Narcissa admonishes gently, arms draped over Lucius’ shoulders as his hands settle on her hips. He’s sitting up, now, back to the headboard as Narcissa straddles his lap. The negligée is gone, her smooth, pale skin exposed.

Lucius nods, but it’s distracted. A reflex. He’s too busy kissing down her chest, head bent to lick along her breasts, take a nipple into his mouth. Narcissa sighs softly, fights a smile as Lucius’ grip tightens. Like he wants to crawl inside her and never come out.  

“Here,” she says, reaching for his wrist. She shifts her weight, puts more on her knees and lifts herself a little, guiding Lucius’ hand between her legs.

He takes the hint: two fingers slipping past her folds and circling her hole, teeth biting at the junction of her shoulder when he feels the wetness there; Narcissa gushing onto his hand. “Good,” she tells him, rocking against the pressure. She covers his hand with her own and presses harder, the other tangling in his hair as Lucius scissors his fingers. Rubs his thumb against her clit. “Good boy,” she hisses, and Lucius groans. Slick sounds filling the room as he quickens his pace. Desperate to please her.

Narcissa keeps rocking, mouth spewing a string of encouragement as she succumbs to the pleasure, that’s it, darling, good, good, keep going, chest panting and thighs shaking as she feels the pressure build. She pulls at her husband’s hair when the edge nears, tugs his head back to kiss him again, bouncing lightly as he fucks her with his fingers.

When she finally comes, it’s with a loud, choked moan, Lucius’ name on her tongue.

 

Lucius holds her eye as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, lips glistening with a mix of his saliva and her juices. He swirls his tongue between his fingers, asks, “Was that good for you?”

He’s obviously joking: voice tilted like it would be at a ball, he the picture perfect host. Narcissa shakes her head as she watches, but it’s with a fond kind of exasperation. The grin that graces her features impossible to keep at bay.

She reaches for him, tugging him upward. Her mouth meets his briefly before he kisses the top of her hair, inhaling softly. Narcissa shuts her eyes. Says, “I love—”

 

“—you.”

Narcissa rests her mouth against his forehead, fingers stroking the hair from his face; tender in a way Lucius only allows in moments like this. “And I, you,” she tells him, whispered like it’s a secret, and, Merlin, she thinks.

She means it.