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What are you, a dog?	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Sirius/Lucius Views: 8820 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
- 1-What are you, a dog?
- 1
It’s some time past midnight, and Lucius is walking through the halls of Hogwarts with all the ease he did as a child, and then as Prefect and Head Boy, when he was here years ago. The Dark Lord had wanted a message delivered to some of his youngest recruits in the Slytherin Common Room, and it had been decided that a visit from Lucius’ father would be too obvious; a visit from Lucius, who keeps rather paternally-treated protégés is far less suspicious, even with the late hour in mind.
Slughorn hadn’t cared a whit.
“Oi! What do you think you’re doing out in the corridor at this time of night?” Lucius arches a silver eyebrow, holding his cane (a recent gift from Narcissa, this very Christmas) between his hands and turning to look. Down here in the dungeons, it is always dark, but the torches are dimmed after ten o’clock, and Lucius has to give his eyes a moment to adjust.
Ah, not a Slytherin prefect patrolling the halls, as it ought be, but Sirius Black.
“I don’t see a badge on your robe, Black,” Lucius murmurs quietly. Black’s face is silhouetted in shadow, making it impossible to judge the change in his expression, but Lucius can certainly see his body stiffen, his chin raise slightly. He had thought he might catch a snake out in the dark, perhaps, to victimize at his leisure.
Lucius begins to walk forwards, his dragonhide boots making a quiet slap each time they touch against the polished stone floor. Black is unmoving, and as Lucius comes closer, he sees his expression is pinched and defiant, his blue eyes shining in the light from the torch nearest to them.
Black’s hair is unkempt, down past his shoulders and barely brushed, and he is growing a patchy stubble across his face, undoubtedly to the mimic the Muggle youths Gryffindors seem so desperate to model themselves after.
“Why, cousin, never have I known you to be so quiet,” Lucius purrs. Black is displeased, now: Lucius is no doubt far too close for his liking, particularly as he suffers from a rather diminutive height in comparison to Lucius himself. Black is seventeen, now, (Narcissa had actually deigned to send him a gift, sentimental creature that she is, although her cousins no longer even recognize Black on their family tree) and no taller than he was two years ago. What is he, five feet and six? Even Severus is taller.
“We’re not cousins, Malfoy,” Black spits. “Don’t know if my ex-mother has made mention of it, but I’ve been disowned.” He says this with such a relish that he must wear it wear it as a badge of honour with his fellow blood traitor friends, and Lucius cannot help the soft chuckle that escapes his mouth. “What?”
Lucius strikes as quickly as the snake he wears as a brooch upon his lapel.
Black lets out a soft oof of sound as his back hits the stone wall of the corridor, but an inch from the base of the torch hanging upon the wall: Lucius’ broad hand is splayed across Black’s chest, but although he is short, he is rather stocky, and his chest is broad. Lucius examines him for any sign of wrongdoing, but finds none – had he truly been merely searching the corridors for a snake awry?
“Let me go! You bastard—"
“If we are not to be cousins, Black, then why, pray, ought I let you go? What kindness ought I show you, if we are not to be related any longer?” Black scowls at him, curling his lip, but before he can speak, Lucius asks, “What is it you’re doing, lurking down here in the dark? Lions do not belong in dungeon corridors.”
“None of your bloody business!”
“Oh, I wince to hear it,” Lucius murmurs, tossing his hair to the side in a way that most would recognize as a sardonic dramatacism. Black is dim, though. “Such plebeian speech! Such a lack of enunciation! Have you need of elocution?”
“The only need I have is for your slimy fingers to stop touching me.” Black tries to struggle, but Lucius is a strong man, and has spent time in cultivating musculature most wizards of his standing would not. But what teaches discipline better than exercise?
“Tell me what you were doing down here, and perhaps I shall,” Lucius murmurs. There are numerous dungeon corridors that wind one way and another, each with arched ceilings and halls that are wide enough only for three people abreast, so if Black yells too loudly, it will undoubtedly echo through the halls and attract the attention of a true prefect or, better, a member of staff.
“You tell me first.”
“I was delivering presents to my favourites of the Slytherin Seventh Year,” Lucius replies cleanly, adjusting the position of his hand to trap the younger man by his neck rather than by his chest, and Sirius’ nostrils flare as he gasps in a little breath. “Your move, Black.”
“Who says I wasn’t just going for a walk?”
“In the dungeons after dark? Hardly pastoral, is it?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“When one goes for a walk, Black, one usually has some sort of view in mind.” Black’s gaze flickers uncertainly, and Lucius turns his head. At the end of the corridor is a girl stood stock-still, but as soon as she sees Lucius’ face, which is well-lit by the torch (unlike her own), she turns tail and runs down the corridor, back toward the common room.
Lucius tuts, and makes a note of her dark hair.
“What are you, Black, a dog?” Black struggles anew under Lucius’ grip, so he fists his hand in the fabric of Black’s robe front and lifts him by it, making Black yelp and grab hold of Lucius’ wrists, his feet not managing to hit the ground as they kick. Lucius’ capacity for a stern hand is usually applied to those of Slytherin House, for it is so important that one learn etiquette as soon as possible, but Black… Well, in many ways he is a lost cause. “You think this is appropriate? Skulking about in order to deflower some slut?”
“What, Lucy? You’d rather I find a Muggle girl?” It is not an act of temper: it is calculated, and Lucius thinks it through before he does it.
The sound rings down the corridor like a pistol shot when Lucius slaps Black across the face. His face is snapped to the side, the skin soon flushing pink under the harsh attention, and Black breathes a little heavier, almost panting.
“While these might be base discussions, Black, we mustn’t sink too lowly.” Lucius releases Black, and when he drops to the ground, he nearly loses his balance; he keeps himself from stumbling only by grasping hold of Lucius’ well-tailored sleeve, but he soon withdraws his hands. “Return to your own common room, else you might find yourself set upon by one of the staff in this place.”
With that, Lucius turns, making his way toward the staircases some five minutes’ walk away: with another snake, he might have insisted upon an escort, but Black is hardly his responsibility, and Lucius can only be thankful that he is with the Potters now – sentimental, certainly, and stupid in their prime, but still of good stock.
“Wait,” Black says, surprising him, and Lucius glances back. “Is that it? You fucking hypocrite.” Lucius feels his brow furrow, and he narrowly inclines his head.
“Pardon? What hypocrisy am I guilty of?”
“Oh, come on,” Black snaps, his tone dripping with venom. “You were obviously in one of the Slytherin dormitories – who was it? Mulciber? Wilkes?” Black snorts. “It wasn’t Snape, was it?” Lucius laughs. It is not one of the dry chuckles he reserves for private jokes made with Narcissa, or with close personal friends over drinks in private; it is an almost operatic, airy thing, intended to read as quite false. Black’s shoulders are high, his lips curled into a canine snarl, his hands clenched into fists. “Laugh all you want. I know all about you and Snivellus.”
Lucius blinks once, twice.
“Snivellus? Is that what you consider a creative insult in these times?” Lucius tuts quietly. “They really ought return the study of literature to the syllabus. Such stupidity is near criminal. Black, I can assure you that any indiscretion I might be tended to belongs in the bedroom, with my wife. I do not select schoolboys with which to romp. Severus is a student of mine. I made the same offer of you before you came here, did I not?”
Does he remember? Yes. Lucius sees the way Black looks internally for a moment; it had been at some Solstice Soirée of the upper classes, before Black would even consider looking at a character like James Potter as a friend. The separations had been clear: Slytherin families to the right, Gryffindors to the left, and the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw-prone mingling between the two… Black had been a sarcastic thing even then, haughty, and had awkwardly walked away when Lucius had offered him help at school. Lucius had never imagined the Hat would pronounce him a Gryffindor…
But what predictions can be made, these days? Narcissa’s own sister had gone so far as to marry a Muggle, and a daughter between the two, at that!
Black seems positively disappointed, as if he hoped Lucius might be selecting from the Hogwarts crop; he might take a man, now and then, but never from the Hogwarts student body. Much as some might ask, that is, but any school-time relationships ought be between schoolboys – Slytherin House has its own internal politics, and such things are as regular as wine at dinner.
“You’re going, then?” Black asks.
“What would you recommend, Black, that I reside here, in this corridor, indefinitely?” Black shrugs like an insouciant child, and then his hands go to the fastening of his robe at his chest and flick it open. His outer robe drops to the ground, leaving him clad only in the red underpiece of his uniform, and Lucius stares at him. Whistling under his breath, Black picks up the piece of black fabric from the ground and walks confidently through the open door of a disused classroom, and Lucius stands frozen in the middle of the corridor, weighing his options.
Black is seventeen, and while Lucius wishes to see relationships flourish of their natural course between members of the Slytherin House, Black is a Gryffindor. He is a Pureblood, of good stock, but he has been disowned; Lucius ought have no worry of corrupting him, for what is there to corrupt?
He couldn’t tell Narcissa, of course; she’d be absolutely ballistic with him, much as she usually enjoys tales of any masculine exploits, and he could hardly confide in friends either… However, what is truly so terrible about having a pleasure or two quite to himself? This would be an indiscretion of the highest order, but—
“Are you coming?” Black is now quiet naked, his head sticking out from the classroom’s doorway, and Lucius’ lips quirk.
“Get inside and bend over a desk,” Lucius instructs, and Black grins at him.
Stepping over the threshold into the classroom, Lucius gently closes the door behind him, locking it with a flick of his wand, and then he gestures windlessly with his other hand to the six candles about the room, which burst into flame. Black, studiously, is unimpressed, but Lucius knows he must be, on the inside. The classroom has nothing but a few scattered desks and chairs, with empty shelves on the wall and a single poster detailing the basic attributes of plants. Once upon a time, dungeon classrooms were used for all manner of things, but there is a smaller staff here in the castle compared to what there once was, a hundred years ago, or two hundred years ago.
Setting his cane and his wand separately on a desk surface, Lucius delicately removes his Krup-leather gloves, which are soft and supple, and then he very neatly begins to roll his sleeves up to the elbow, as he might tending his garden or cooking.
“I believe I told you to bend over, Black,” Lucius says mildly. This is an unexpected foray, but it hardly means Lucius is going to allow a lack of discipline. With younger men, he has certain expectations, and even a traitor like Black is going to be held to them.
“Why don’t you make me?” Lucius flicks his wrist slightly, adjusting the tuck of his sleeves at his elbow. Black is nude, his robes thrown haphazardly over a broken chair in the corner, and Lucius examines him, his lips pressed together. Over Black’s heart is a tattoo of the phases of the moon, and at his left hip is one of a rising son; the tattoos are made with Muggle ink, for they don’t move, and Lucius presses his lips together as he twirls his finger expectantly.
Sirius scowls at him, but then he reluctantly turns his back. Over his lower back is a magical tattoo of a stag silhouetted in the moonlight, dancing upon a hill, but it isn’t that that makes Lucius frown and lean forwards. He draws his thumb nail, which is neatly trimmed and carefully buffed, over a wound that cuts into the edge of Black’s hip, and is being allowed to heal naturally with thick scabbing. It looks a very harsh graze, as if he’d taken a tumble down some of the rougher-hewn stairs in the castle, but if that were the case he’d undoubtedly go directly to the new nurse in the Infirmary – what’s her name, Pamela, Penny? She’s only four or five years older than Lucius, a Ravenclaw.
Lucius waits a moment, but Black offers no explanation, and so Lucius stands straight again. He shoves Black roughly forwards, grasping at the back of his neck and pinning him down against one of the older slanted desks: Black lets out a sharp sound, his hands splaying on the varnished wood and grasping hold of it. The highest edge of the desk is pressing against his belly, his head down at an unnatural angle, and he’s forced onto his tip-toes to keep his balance in place.
Black has a pleasant enough arse.
He’s physically fit, more so than the average boy his age, and Lucius can see from his inner thighs that he’s used to riding a broom particularly, but there’s light muscle on the majority of his form, not just there. His arse, however, is a pleasantly padded seat, rounded and bright white under the light from the candles, and Lucius draws his fingers pensively over the soft, unmarked flesh.
“You’ve had men before?”
“Yeah, but—” Black is moving as if to stand, but Lucius’ wand is his hand in a moment, and he murmurs an incantation: Black is pinned in his place, stuck with magic to the table, and his breath speeds some. He tries to shift, but succeeds only in dragging his bare toes across the stone floor, and Lucius sees he has a few cuts and grazes about his ankles, too.
Strange.
“But what, pray?”
“I have men,” Black says, sharply, defensively. “They don’t have me.” Lucius gasps, dramatically, and he spreads his fingers gently over the flesh of Black’s buttocks, holding them apart. The cool air on Black’s hole and the back of his sac obviously gives him a shock, because he lets out a muffled whine.
“You don’t mean to tell me I might be the first guest inside?” Lucius asks in a purr.
“No, no, no,” Black groans, but even as he says so, his thighs part, spreading and allowing Lucius more access to him. Black’s prick is up against the edge of the desk, hanging down toward the ground, and Lucius draws his fingers over its back. Black is already quite hard, but despite his height he has a decent size to speak of, and his testicles make for a pleasant weight in Lucius’ hand. He rolls them between his thumb and fingers, feeling their heated weight and the fuzz of hair upon them, so much softer than the ridiculous stubble on his face, and Black whines like a hunting dog desperate to join the outgoing party.
His left hand still working upon Black’s purse, Lucius draws his tongue over his thumb, wetting it thoroughly before dragging it over Black’s hole. The entrance is lightly hairy but pink and puckered, and Lucius can most certainly believe no one has partaken of it before. What luck, Black is not so well-used a man as he’d thought. Lucius spreads Black’s cheeks once more, looking at him closely: with his wet thumb tracing the seam that runs from his hole over his sac, he leans in closely, breathing over the soft skin.
“Oh, come on,” Sirius moans, doing his best to squirm beneath Lucius’ ministrations.
“Come what?”
“If you’re going to fuck me, fuck me.”
“Oh, but, Black,” Lucius points out, releasing Black and conjuring a small bottle of lubricant. “Did you not just tell me “no”? Thrice, if I recall.” Black exhales harshly, his hands shifting their grip upon the desk. Lucius takes his wand and taps Sirius’ coccyx, murmuring a short set of incantations (for the sake of cleanliness), and then he sets his wand within his pocket, taking the bottle of lubricant once more. Dripping a little of the filmy, clear liquid between his fingers and thumb, he once more reaches for Sirius’ entrance, thumbing over the wrinkled skin there. Immediately, it begins to glisten in the light, and Lucius feels himself smile with a mild satisfaction, pressing upon the skin and feeling the untested strength of the muscle within, wetting the pucker.
Black clenches beneath his ministrations, as if trying to draw him in, and then snaps, “I didn’t mean it. Just— Please, Malfoy, just do it, I just want to— I don’t know, I want something—”
“You’re rather pathetic, aren’t you, Black?” Lucius asks, dispassionately, and he slides his thumb inside. It moves without resistance, moving quickly to the root, and Lucius splays his fingers against Black’s lower back, pressing his thumb against the roof of Black’s insides. Despite the easy slide, Black is by no means loose: the muscle clenches tightly about Lucius’ digit as he shifts inside him, hugging tightly to Lucius’ own skin – Black all but writhes beneath the attention, but his groans and noises are all but nonsense, without any words or meaning to them. “Is this what you do, Black? Organise for girls to take care of your basest needs? You are quite the harlot yourself, aren’t you? Why is that, do you think?”
Lucius begins to move his thumb, drawing it back and then pressing it forwards again, thrusting it in parody of a member, and Black, from what Lucius can see, is biting hard upon his lips and pressing his cheek against the wood of the desk. How long has he fantasised about this, Lucius wonders? How often does Black lie in bed at night and dream of a man laying such attentions upon him?
“I’m not a— a harlot, who talks like that?”
“Those of your breeding, as you well know,” Lucius replies icily, and he draws his thumb away. Black has barely begun whining out his noise of loss before Lucius is replacing his thumb with his teasing middle and ring finger, wetly drawing them against his hole. Black is shifting beneath the touch, pressing his backside back against Lucius’ touch, desperately, achingly.
Lucius presses forwards, and this is a little harder, yes: there is a little more resistance to two fingers instead of just his thumb, and he hears the strain in Black’s elongated whines of noise. Lucius prides himself, above all else, upon his discipline and self-control, but what Black knows of either of these qualities is doubtful, for now he opens himself like a whore on Knockturn Alley.
“I bet you wish you were a woman, do you?” Lucius asks mildly, and he slides his fingers slowly forwards, feeling the resistance, feeling how very tight Black is for him, despite the wetness about the digits. “Were you born a lady you might debase yourself better, have men queueing for a taste of you, and carry the leavings of a dozen of them with you.” Black wails, and he shakes his head, but Lucius is unmoved.
“Why’ve you got to make it so— So strange? I like sex. What’s wrong with tha-at? Purebloods, they’re so, ungh, so hung up on it.” As he tries to speak, Lucius’ fingers are buried inside him, touching against the light bump upon his inner floor, and when Lucius strokes over it Black’s prick twitches at the stimulation. A little wetness gathers at the head, a pearly droplet falling to the ground like wax from a new candle, and Black whimpers. “You like sex too.”
“But, I think you will find, I’m not so starved for attention that I will beg older men to join me in a classroom and put their hands inside me.” Lucius ever so slowly scissors his fingers, feeling the ring of muscle at Black’s entrance resist the widening shift, but not enough to force him out. Lucius knows this sensation, the sweet burn of sensation as the muscle is forced to work in ways it has not before, and he sees that Black lives for it, loves it, is taken away by it. It is perhaps for the best his mother has disowned him: were he still a member of the Black line, he might be a liability, so swayed as he is by physical stimulation.
“Your hand?” Black repeats, but not with fear: Lucius hears only curiosity and excitement, and he tuts quietly at the shame Black ought feel, for he does not. Never has he known such a slattern, no doubt even among those very whores that lurk in the darkest alleys of London. Perhaps Black has ambition to join them, for he would likely love to be paid to do nought but lie upon his back and experience a cock inside him.
Lucius widens his fingers as wide as he can, and Black cries out a hoarse curse, so garbled Lucius cannot make it out.
“You are nothing but a slut, Black. Do you understand?” Lucius keeps his fingers in the same position, not adding lubricant or shifting the position of them, keeping them apart to keep the sensation of a stretch, and Black’s mouth clicks shut. There’s a long pause, and Lucius’ soon fingers feel stiff, but he was taught to play the piano and harp alike as a child, and his fingers are strong.
“Yes,” Black says, finally, harshly. “Yeah, I understand.” Lucius’ lip quirks, and he begins to thrust his fingers slowly within Black, rocking them into him before drawing them back again, and he slides his index finger in alongside the others when Black next clenches tightly, and he hears Black’s soft sigh of satisfaction. This is all he wants, it seems: to be filled.
“What do you want?” Lucius asks, curious as to what Black’s response might be, and he drizzles a little more lubricant over his fingers, wetting them fully and burying them within him. Every time he draws over Black’s prostate, his body gives an involuntary twitch and his sac will jump a little, drawing up…
Black is made for this.
“I don’t know,” Black gasps out: he’s growing closer to release, now, as Lucius speeds the movement of his fingers up, pressing them deeper, scissoring them wider, and Black is breathing faster and harder too. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—” There’s a petulant whine in his voice, desperate for whatever stimulation he might get, and Lucius muses for a moment whether he’ll let Black come. He lowers his voice, adding a softness to it, a layer of seduction.
“Are you sure?” He asks, posing the question as one to a lover, leaning forwards and murmuring it against Black’s skin as his spare hand plays gentle patterns upon Black’s back. “What do you like, Black? You want to reach release from this alone? You want more inside you?”
“More,” Black whispers.
“More? Are you greedy, Black? Is this not enough for you?”
“Fuck’s sake, Malfoy, don’t, just— Please—”
“Please, what? I don’t know what you want, Black. You want my fingers, I know, but what else? My tongue? My mouth? My cock?” Black’s breath hitches. “Ah, I see. And what ought I do with it? Take you, take your hole? Let you take me in your mouth? How many times have you done that before?”
“Done what? Given a blowjob?” Lucius wrinkles his nose.
“I don’t believe I’d call it that. There is no blowing involved.” Black barks out a laugh.
“Few times,” Black says, evasively. Lucius considers Black’s relationship with James Potter, as close as they are… But no, from what Lucius can tell from rare interactions, and from what he’s heard from Severus, Potter has no interest in other men at all. Perhaps that’s why Black is the way he is, but what does Lucius know? “No. No. I want to come.”
“Do you?” Lucius asks, in a superior tone, and he chuckles slightly, thrusting his fingers a little faster inside Sirius, widening their spread slightly as he draws back out, and Black grits his teeth. “How? On my fingers?”
“Mmm, yeah, fine, okay, just—” Lucius brings his left hand down hard on Black’s left buttock, the sound of the slap ringing in the room, and Sirius wails. “Ow, ow, Malfoy, what the—”
In a quiet and delicate tone, Lucius asks, “Do you want me to do that again?”
A moment’s silence.
“Mmm,” is the only response he gets, but it is sufficient. Lucius draws his fingers back, wiping them on a handkerchief from a pocket within his robes, and then he swings his hand down hard on Black’s backside, feeling the sting against his palm and the way Black’s buttocks shake under the onslaught, the way he quakes and awkwardly attempts to thrust his hips for more stimulation. Another slap, this one louder, and then Lucius begins in earnest: he hits the left and then the right cheek, again and again and again, until each of them have healthy glows of red and even a gentle draw of one of Lucius’ nails across the skin makes Black thrash and flounder beneath the touch.
Lucius spreads Sirius’ buttocks, and Black stiffens, letting out quiet, muffled noises, going as still as he can. Lucius draws fingers over the wetness of Black’s entrance, where it’s now slightly open and shining with wetness, the muscle clenching about nought but air. “Shall I hit you here, Black?” Lucius asks softly, thumbing over the skin. It’s a soft pink, but it isn’t as brightly red as Black’s arsecheeks, and Lucius considers it in the back of mind – how lovely might it look, with such a glow to it? “If I slap you here, it will burn if I enter you again.”
“Maybe after,” Black says hoarsely. Lucius cups Black’s buttocks in his hands, feels the heated skin and feels the way Black flinches, and satisfaction is all he feels. And to think, he considered allowing this opportunity to pass him by – Black might be a blood traitor, and a weakling, but he’s an attractive young man, and Lucius is certain with the right training he might become almost passable. “You gonna fuck me over the table like this?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you going to fuck me like this?”
“No,” Lucius says decisively, and he flicks his wand, letting the charm keeping Black in his place dissipate. Black shifts back, and Lucius pulls him up onto his feet, keeping a firm grasp of him to ensure he does not fall. Black’s knees are weak, but he keeps his stance, and Lucius has a quick glance over his chest. There are marks from the press of the wood against his skin in red and white, but nothing that will not fade within an hour or two’s respite.
Good, he thinks, and he slams Black against a wall.
He can see the younger man’s face now, see the mix of interest, excitement, desperation on his face, and Black’s thighs are spread as he leans back against the stone, his hair brushing against the old Herbology poster. “Stay,” Lucius says cleanly, the word a command, and he adjusts his robes, leaning against the desk and drawing himself out. Black looks at the length of Lucius’ prick with a hungry fascination, his lips parted and bruised from his biting at them; Lucius treats himself perfunctorily, merely bringing himself to hardness and ensuring he’s properly lubricated.
This is not the time for masturbation, after all. Rarely does Lucius feel the need for such things, and now is most certainly not the time for it. Were he lingering for longer, if he had need to make Black cry with desire… Yes, then, he might do so. But for now?
No.
Lucius comes closer again, drawing the fingers of his clean hand over the Black’s cheek, and Black leans forwards, his lips parted.
“What is it you think you’re doing?” Lucius asks, cleanly and sharply, and Black freezes.
“What, you’re too good to kiss me?”
Lucius arches an eyebrow, and says, “Kissing isn’t for escapades such as these.” He kisses Narcissa, kisses good friends on the cheeks or the forehead, kisses cousins and family members from France, but Black? Hardly. He remains frozen with his hands against his own chest, watching Lucius as if uncertain as to what he’ll do, and Lucius leans in, slightly. “I am going to lift you, and I am going to take you against the wall.”
Black stares at him.
“Can you do that?”
“Lift you? Easily.” Black’s gaze goes to Lucius’ arms, and then flicks back to his face.
“What, you work out?” Lucius despises the Muggle terminology that seems to insidiously work its way into the conversation of proper elements of society, and he arches his eyebrows in question. “You lift weights?” Lift weights? What does Black take him for, some costume-clad circus performer?
“I lift Narcissa,” Lucius says. Black snorts. “I have a series of exercises: you aren’t heavy, Black.”
“You’re not going to drop me?” Lucius ignores him, grabs Black by the hips, and lines himself up. He lifts Black by the buttocks, almost digging his fingers into the well-abused flesh, and the savage, cruel part of Lucius delights in the way that Black winces and lets out a short gasp of pain, and then he lets him drop slightly.
Black is impaled in one smooth motion, and he lets out a harsh choking sound, his head tipping back against the wall as he hooks his legs around Lucius’ thighs, his own tight about the ridge of Lucius’ hips, and he grabs at Lucius, throwing his arms around Lucius’ neck to keep his balance. He fists his hands in the fabric of Lucius’ robes, holding tightly to the expensive fabric. Lucius stays in place for a moment or two, allowing Black to adjust to the thickness inside him, to the weight of it, and Black’s head is tipped back, his eyes tightly closed, his mouth open. Black is a tight, wet vice around his cock, clenching every few seconds about the base of Lucius’ prick, and it’s good.
“Are you ready?” Lucius asks, mildly. Black takes a few seconds’ pause, and then he nods his head. Lucius throws him back against the wall, pinning him in place, and then he begins to thrust, letting Black drop down onto the length of him. He’s hot on the inside, hot and slick with lubricant, and when Lucius moves he draws himself out to the very tip before slamming back home; each time Black will let out a soft cry of sound, so pathetic a little noise that it is glorious to the ear, and Lucius loves the power in this moment, the power and control he has over the hateful little man that is Sirius Black.
Lucius is moving and Black is squirming in his place, doing his best to thrust himself back down onto Lucius’ hips, grabbing at his robes, his chest, his back, and when Lucius leans in and drags his teeth over Black’s neck, Black hisses. Black’s nails are digging into Lucius’ back, but they’re shorter than Lucius’ own, and it’s barely noticeable.
Pinning him back against the wall and keeping his left hand in place to steady Black, Lucius allows his right hand to go for Black’s own cock, which is wet with his own fluid, drawing the slickness over the length of it, squeezing slightly at the base; Black is gasping as Lucius thrusts inside him, gasping and whining.
He’s tight enough that every thrust draws pleasantly on Lucius’ every side, and Lucius feels himself growing closer to release. He bites at the side of Black’s jaw, at his neck, and every time Black is hurt it seems he revels in it, crying out and digging his heels into Lucius’ thighs to draw him closer, clenching as tightly as he can…
Lucius feels his hips begin to stutter slightly, losing control of his regular rhythm, but he allows himself to lose control: the wetness pulses inside Black as Lucius feels his sac draw tightly up and his cock twitch within him. Black bites down hard enough on his own lip that a droplet of blood drips down his chin, staining the stubble there, and Lucius squeezes a little harder as he fists over Black’s cock.
“Have you want of release?” Lucius asks, softly, but he doesn’t need to ask: already, Black’s cock is pulsing, wetness staining each of their bellies, and Lucius laughs as he strokes Black through it; carrying Black away from the wall, he sets him lightly down upon a desk, taking a handkerchief and his wand to clean himself off.
Black is exhausted and shining with sweat, leaning forwards and staring down at the floor. Lucius examines him for a moment, thinking about Black and his pride, his blood traitor friends, his fascination with the so-called side of “Light”. War is coming, Lucius knows, and the levee will break any day now, but how easy would it be, he wonders, to draw Black onto the right side, the side that will win?
The Dark Lord would kill a man like this, anyway, but if Lucius were to take Black under his wing, take him for himself… A traitor to his blood, why should he not be a traitor to his supposed friends? Lucius would gladly take Sirius Black as a toy, a student of sorts, but… No. He is too stubborn, and Lucius knows it would be impossible to sway him. He loves that Potter boy, stupid as he might be.
Lucius adjusts his hair, ensuring it is combed into place, and unrolls his sleeves to the wrist once more. Black is watching him, the sound of his heavy breaths echoing in the room. “You really don’t do anything with Snape?”
Lucius adjusts the cravat at the front of his robes. “As I said, Severus is a student of mine. We’re friends, Black, nothing more. You would do well to leave him be.” Black curls his lip, ready to say something incendiary, no doubt, but Lucius holds up a hand to stop him. Almost to Lucius’ surprise, Black holds his tongue. “Good night, Black. Take care in your journey back to your common room.”
Black’s lip twitches, as if he knows something Lucius does not – perhaps some secret passage right up to the common room.
“Come back soon,” Black says, a parody of a sign on a store in Diagon Alley, and Lucius ensures the wrinkle of his nose is hidden from Black as he takes his leave.
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