Title: Stoking the Family Fire
Characters: Lucius, Rodolphus, Female Canon Character
Word Count: 1050
Summary: After Lucius is summoned to the Black residence and given some unwelcome news, Rodolphus provides him with more than moral support. (This is not a slash fic.)
Warning (Highlight to view): For epistolary voyeurism.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thank you, eaivalefay and stasia, for beta'ing.
You leave the meeting with Cygnus and Abraxas in a towering rage of bruised ego and thwarted hopes, your best friend falling into step behind you as you cross the threshold of my husband's office.
"I don't want to speak about it," you growl, ignoring his expectant, bemused expression.
Rodolphus ignores you, claps one of his thick, huge hands on your shoulder to stop you, and you turn, prepared to fight. You want to fight. Someone should be made to suffer for your disappointment. Someone always has been made to do so; that is the way of things.
"The Sisters Black are excessively devoted to . . . the men of their own choosing," Rodolphus explains, undaunted by your mood as he hands you the crumpled piece of parchment. "All is, I think, not lost. You'll have a wife yet—a proper one, too."
Intrigued despite your fury, you glance at the spidery fine handwriting on the page before you, noting that the page appears to have been ripped none to gently from a diary, and read:
I imagine you lying beside me, your breath warm against my neck as you whisper, "What do you want?" and me, trembling against you and afraid to speak. "Open your eyes," you say, and I do. "Look into mine," you tell me, and I do.
I imagine our bodies, naked and pressed together, your cock pulsing against my quim. "Tell me what you want," you order, and I can feel your fingertips urging my lips to part, your thumbnail grazing a nipple into an impatient peak.
I imagine you preparing me.
I imagine this, yet I cannot speak of it because it's too much: that I might breathe you in and feel you so close is too much. I can't ask for the drowning warmth I know we'd make. But in my dream you know, and you move; you move me, and I'm on top of you, straddling you, feeling the strength of your muscles supporting me.
I imagine then that my mouth dries, my nipples buzz, and I'm so wet I could slide off your urgent thigh were your hands not there keeping me in place.
I imagine how I want you inside me, how I want your love—hard, fast, and unrepentant—how I want you to play upon my body until I am without rhythm, without sense, without anything but endless, glorious need crashing through me.
I imagine that it's completely yours, this feeling, and it excites me.
I imagine that my quim—the hot slick wetness of it, the grasping of its muscles—is yours.
I imagine that my breasts—hard and soft at once, crushing against you as you pull me down toward your chest—are yours.
I imagine that my lips—bruising under the firm, unyielding kiss you've bestowed so tenderly—are yours.
I imagine that my body—its yearning, its use—is yours.
I imagine, as I pleasure myself—as I caress what is yours—that you understand this, that you know I desire you to claim me, and the fingers stroking me become yours; the body forcing the air from my lungs in an unrivaled burst of ecstasy becomes yours; and I come every time blessing you for taking all that is yours again and again and again.
I imagine being yours, and I write of it, I dream of it, but I can't speak of it because a lady doesn't, and you have deigned to praise me as such. I can't speak of it because you have named me your "sweet sister," as well. I can't speak of my belonging to you, and I despair.
I imagine that you will never come for me. In fact, I know you won't, and the pain of this knowledge is killing me.
I imagine that I shall die alone in a cold spinster's bed, ashamed even then of the betrayal you suffered by my sister's thoughtless rejection of your gift of yourself. Oh, if you were mine, if you wanted me, what love you would have, what devotion! I would not ever fail you. But there will never come that moment, our moment, when I can prove to you my worth, and I will continue to mourn the unmade memory of your fingers ghosting over my grieving, unmarked flesh.
I imagine, and I damn myself.
I imagine that I shall love you forever, better and more deeply than any woman could. You'll never know of my love, but I shan't think it wasted—for I imagine, and I love, and I know: you, Lucius, are the master of my heart and my body and my soul, and these I will vouchsafe for you in the looming eternity that will be my "life" of loneliness. Yes, though you will never know of it, I vow here and now, bereft of all hope, that none shall ever touch that which is yours, none save you in my unspoken, unanswered, unattainable dreams.
The shock of the rejection you've so recently experienced is obliterated utterly by that rush of exaltation which one knows upon effortlessly enslaving the heart of one so perfect, one so precious, one so . . . naïve, and a sense of triumph pervades your very being.
"She's just an innocent," you say, attempting to master your joy.
But Rodolphus knows you better than that.
"Is she?" he asks, his expression now a well-bred blank. "Then I imagine that she requires your . . . protection."
You smile, slowly, ferally, and, you know it's true, reverently, as you begin to dream of the future Mrs. Narcissa Black Malfoy. I see that you do; I do not have to imagine it.
"Do go thank Bellatrix for me, Rodolphus, while I return to Father and Mr. Black."
Rodolphus nods and waits for you to leave him before turning to where I have been waiting, watching—willing things to rights—and I dispel the glamour that has been hiding me to dismiss him with a nod. I have no more time to spare for ambitious young sons; I have daughters to instruct.
Bellatrix will eagerly support the lie, believing it a good jape, and Narcissa, Narcissa will do as she's told. And may you, Lucius Malfoy—vainglorious parvenu though you are—turn out to be as lordly the lover as my words have painted you.
"For my youngest could do with some heat in her pristine, un-fired loins."