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rmThis is one of those not really in the Descensus arc, but in the Descensus arc things.
It happens long after our story will conclude, and in fact, even after one of the several of epilogues we are planning to write for it. So on some level it is a spoiler, but not really. Use your judgement if you want to be spoiled. Lucius is in Azkaban at this point, this is probably happening during Book 6, but does not contain spoilers. The tenses are all over the place intentionally, although I find I am still playing with them in places.
It's Severus/Narcissa, with allusions to both their involvements with Lucius. It's not pornographic at all, although it is about sex, more or less. And it's bittersweet as hell. And I'm really proud of it. There is, of course, a tremendous amount of debt to Kali, but I'd rather wax poetic about it to her than you guys. Just you know, she rocks.
More than anything, he loves it when she winds her arms around his neck. Even in bed, he can feel her go up on her toes to do it, and he thinks it makes them both seem much younger. Which is strange, as they didn’t have this sort of chemistry then. Of course, teen-agers don’t really ever have chemistry. They have desperation and biological imperative. And, Severus thinks, in their case, they had the looming shadow of Lucius Malfoy, in whose name they still supposedly do all this.
Mostly.
It is the qualifier that unsettles him, and the letters, Narcissa’s sudden and declarative nature that insists he was always intended for this, should these things have come to pass as they did. Severus knows she lies about many things, but she would not lie about this, not her husband and not her beloved and stupidly patient friend. He wonders if Lucius can feel him fucking her. He wonders how tightly the man will wrap his hands around his throat should they ever see him again. Strange, he thinks, that he should so prefer Lucius’ darkest gestures and her sweetest, especially when they are so oddly similar, at least in prose.
There was a time when he wanted to marry her. He never told her that, it was too stupid, too obvious and too weak. She would have laughed at him. She laughed at him anyway. Now there are familiar moments he always wished for. They make his hands tremble, but his hands have never trembled; it was not allowed. Perhaps, he thinks, he is just growing older. He finds relief in the fact that brushing her hair is not as interesting as he would have thought when he was fourteen, but it pleases her, and so he does it anyway. Severus realizes that for all the nights he spent in their bed, he has never had much sense of their domestic life, but Narcissa is so clearly bereft of so many small things.
He is aware that he loves her; that some long hammered-flat part of his nature would have been in love with her, that were they other people, this would be called ease. But they are not, and he is grateful, in the dark, at the door, in her bed. He insists they go to dinner first; it is polite. With the excuse of wine, with the appointment being for something other than sex he can pretend they are doing something other than having an affair. Lucius would laugh at his contortions, kindly even.
When she leads him up the stairs, she holds his hand but does not look back. He thinks it odd, that he should be Eurydice, until he remembers that he has always been a shade, a watcher, a warning and a threat -- so much for someone who was once such a small boy. In many ways, being a child was the only thing he was never any good at. Narcissa remembers and he realizes that she is the only one who does.
The first time they had grabbed at each other desperately, crashing against walls all the way up to that half-empty bedroom. Now though, there is always a pause to see which one of them is feeling brave. Severus is always happiest when it is her, because he is nearly certain Lucius never let her take the first step in anything and there is something lovely about her bold, about her reaching for his face, her thumbs sliding against the groove of his cheekbones. It is hard for him to fathom that other than Lucius and himself, she will never be with another man, and he understands in a way he supposes he had always missed before why Lucius has always been so aroused by possession. He finds it explains everything – from Lucius’ predilection for imperius to the fine damask drapes that have, over the years, gradually grown more tasteful.
Sometimes, Severus finds it difficult to focus. This has always been a problem; his compulsive need to catalog obstructing his ability to observe. Lucius had this ability to wrench him from it, and Severus always bites the inside of his cheek in shame when he finds himself thinking of the man as a past thing. He wonders sometimes if Narcissa makes herself bleed in the same way, or if she has no need of such things, being a woman. She is patient with him, coaxing and laughing, and he wonders if it was his distraction that made her feel safe in his bed when they were children.
Once, the second time, she led him to the room that has been his as a guest, before it was a given how evenings would end. It should have been impersonal, unpleasant, but when his head cracked back against the wall as she kissed him, Severus understood that men moan instead of weep. She climbed on top of him that night, half a smile on her face, her right arm folded up against her and between her breasts, her hand touching absently at the edge of her face as if she had forgotten something, or as if she had remembered it.
She was, in that moment, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he knew that all she had ever wanted from him was that he keep her safe. He knew too that he had failed her, because he had been distracted, dumb and blind, in the face of blood, in the face of her husband whom he loved as desperately, in the name of ambition and awkwardness. She looked at him then, cocked her head and moved. She had called him so many terrible things so often, had reminded him of what they each were and yet this was forgiving. Severus wasn’t sure she even understood.
It’s not crying when tears come silently, he thinks, not in men, not when they don’t spill. Still, she could say something and doesn’t. He adores to dig his hand into her hair, to roll them over, to surround her. Sometimes, he calls her my little clinging vine, but more for the syllables of it than any truth. Severus knows which one of them bends. So does Narcissa.
To her, he says yes. With Lucius, it was always please. It still is, in dreams. Sometimes, even when he is awake and he loses track of the fact and time. He was not always begging Lucius whatever it seemed, and he is never giving her permission. Words mean different things at different times; it’s why he always hated to answer when Lucius asked please what? But he did relish that he asked.
Severus thinks he has never pleased anyone through action, only use. But he knows how to touch Narcissa. How to make her want and squirm and curse him. Sometimes he thinks she wants to spit. It humbles him, and he can’t tell her that, any more than he has the courage to tell her what she tastes like. After his initiation, he spent most of the night wishing Lucius would hold his head in his lap and play with his hair as his mother did, once or twice, when he was very young. Sometimes Severus wonders if he said it in fever and does not remember, except that he is sure he did not.
Narcissa likes the bones of him and sometimes when she comes she squeezes his hand so hard that his fingers rub together painfully, like cricket wings. The sound is a low hum, a quiet mourning and after, they rest, puzzled at being so close in such circumstances, but used to their backs being cold because Lucius always slept in the middle. When she turns over in the dark and presses back against him like a spoon, he finds that is trust and shame and perfect and kisses the back of her neck. He lies awake then long hours, cataloguing in his mind all the small measuring tools he was tasked with making in those first tedious weeks of his apprenticeship and considers how metal warms to practiced hands.
It happens long after our story will conclude, and in fact, even after one of the several of epilogues we are planning to write for it. So on some level it is a spoiler, but not really. Use your judgement if you want to be spoiled. Lucius is in Azkaban at this point, this is probably happening during Book 6, but does not contain spoilers. The tenses are all over the place intentionally, although I find I am still playing with them in places.
It's Severus/Narcissa, with allusions to both their involvements with Lucius. It's not pornographic at all, although it is about sex, more or less. And it's bittersweet as hell. And I'm really proud of it. There is, of course, a tremendous amount of debt to Kali, but I'd rather wax poetic about it to her than you guys. Just you know, she rocks.
More than anything, he loves it when she winds her arms around his neck. Even in bed, he can feel her go up on her toes to do it, and he thinks it makes them both seem much younger. Which is strange, as they didn’t have this sort of chemistry then. Of course, teen-agers don’t really ever have chemistry. They have desperation and biological imperative. And, Severus thinks, in their case, they had the looming shadow of Lucius Malfoy, in whose name they still supposedly do all this.
Mostly.
It is the qualifier that unsettles him, and the letters, Narcissa’s sudden and declarative nature that insists he was always intended for this, should these things have come to pass as they did. Severus knows she lies about many things, but she would not lie about this, not her husband and not her beloved and stupidly patient friend. He wonders if Lucius can feel him fucking her. He wonders how tightly the man will wrap his hands around his throat should they ever see him again. Strange, he thinks, that he should so prefer Lucius’ darkest gestures and her sweetest, especially when they are so oddly similar, at least in prose.
There was a time when he wanted to marry her. He never told her that, it was too stupid, too obvious and too weak. She would have laughed at him. She laughed at him anyway. Now there are familiar moments he always wished for. They make his hands tremble, but his hands have never trembled; it was not allowed. Perhaps, he thinks, he is just growing older. He finds relief in the fact that brushing her hair is not as interesting as he would have thought when he was fourteen, but it pleases her, and so he does it anyway. Severus realizes that for all the nights he spent in their bed, he has never had much sense of their domestic life, but Narcissa is so clearly bereft of so many small things.
He is aware that he loves her; that some long hammered-flat part of his nature would have been in love with her, that were they other people, this would be called ease. But they are not, and he is grateful, in the dark, at the door, in her bed. He insists they go to dinner first; it is polite. With the excuse of wine, with the appointment being for something other than sex he can pretend they are doing something other than having an affair. Lucius would laugh at his contortions, kindly even.
When she leads him up the stairs, she holds his hand but does not look back. He thinks it odd, that he should be Eurydice, until he remembers that he has always been a shade, a watcher, a warning and a threat -- so much for someone who was once such a small boy. In many ways, being a child was the only thing he was never any good at. Narcissa remembers and he realizes that she is the only one who does.
The first time they had grabbed at each other desperately, crashing against walls all the way up to that half-empty bedroom. Now though, there is always a pause to see which one of them is feeling brave. Severus is always happiest when it is her, because he is nearly certain Lucius never let her take the first step in anything and there is something lovely about her bold, about her reaching for his face, her thumbs sliding against the groove of his cheekbones. It is hard for him to fathom that other than Lucius and himself, she will never be with another man, and he understands in a way he supposes he had always missed before why Lucius has always been so aroused by possession. He finds it explains everything – from Lucius’ predilection for imperius to the fine damask drapes that have, over the years, gradually grown more tasteful.
Sometimes, Severus finds it difficult to focus. This has always been a problem; his compulsive need to catalog obstructing his ability to observe. Lucius had this ability to wrench him from it, and Severus always bites the inside of his cheek in shame when he finds himself thinking of the man as a past thing. He wonders sometimes if Narcissa makes herself bleed in the same way, or if she has no need of such things, being a woman. She is patient with him, coaxing and laughing, and he wonders if it was his distraction that made her feel safe in his bed when they were children.
Once, the second time, she led him to the room that has been his as a guest, before it was a given how evenings would end. It should have been impersonal, unpleasant, but when his head cracked back against the wall as she kissed him, Severus understood that men moan instead of weep. She climbed on top of him that night, half a smile on her face, her right arm folded up against her and between her breasts, her hand touching absently at the edge of her face as if she had forgotten something, or as if she had remembered it.
She was, in that moment, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he knew that all she had ever wanted from him was that he keep her safe. He knew too that he had failed her, because he had been distracted, dumb and blind, in the face of blood, in the face of her husband whom he loved as desperately, in the name of ambition and awkwardness. She looked at him then, cocked her head and moved. She had called him so many terrible things so often, had reminded him of what they each were and yet this was forgiving. Severus wasn’t sure she even understood.
It’s not crying when tears come silently, he thinks, not in men, not when they don’t spill. Still, she could say something and doesn’t. He adores to dig his hand into her hair, to roll them over, to surround her. Sometimes, he calls her my little clinging vine, but more for the syllables of it than any truth. Severus knows which one of them bends. So does Narcissa.
To her, he says yes. With Lucius, it was always please. It still is, in dreams. Sometimes, even when he is awake and he loses track of the fact and time. He was not always begging Lucius whatever it seemed, and he is never giving her permission. Words mean different things at different times; it’s why he always hated to answer when Lucius asked please what? But he did relish that he asked.
Severus thinks he has never pleased anyone through action, only use. But he knows how to touch Narcissa. How to make her want and squirm and curse him. Sometimes he thinks she wants to spit. It humbles him, and he can’t tell her that, any more than he has the courage to tell her what she tastes like. After his initiation, he spent most of the night wishing Lucius would hold his head in his lap and play with his hair as his mother did, once or twice, when he was very young. Sometimes Severus wonders if he said it in fever and does not remember, except that he is sure he did not.
Narcissa likes the bones of him and sometimes when she comes she squeezes his hand so hard that his fingers rub together painfully, like cricket wings. The sound is a low hum, a quiet mourning and after, they rest, puzzled at being so close in such circumstances, but used to their backs being cold because Lucius always slept in the middle. When she turns over in the dark and presses back against him like a spoon, he finds that is trust and shame and perfect and kisses the back of her neck. He lies awake then long hours, cataloguing in his mind all the small measuring tools he was tasked with making in those first tedious weeks of his apprenticeship and considers how metal warms to practiced hands.
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