Fic: On Narcissism (Lucius/Pansy) by eonone

[hpsscmods]

Title: On Narcissism
Author: eonone
Pairing/Character(s): Lucius Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: Most decidedly NC-17
Contains: Bondage, flogging, spanking, public sex, and desk!sex. Generally, lots of sex in various forms.
Word count: 5370
Summary: "She had only been an exercise in ego, a game to see if he could still snag a pretty twenty-something and bring her into his bed. Obviously, he’d succeeded. There was no reason for it to continue, but it had."
Author notes: Many, many thanks to my lovely beta, for countless read-throughs, suggestions, and curtailing my abuse of commas. This is by far the porniest thing I have ever written, so I hope you all enjoy it.





God, what am I doing here?

She asked the question every time, but never until it was too late. Never until she was arched up on her tiptoes, dangling with her wrists in manacles. Never until she was spread-eagle across a four-poster bed, naked and blindfolded. Never until she was dressed in her old Hogwarts uniform, bent over a desk with her legs spread wide.

Never until the exact moment before the whip brushed her skin, teeth sank into her nipples, or Lucius Malfoy’s cane bit into her thighs.

She never thought twice about going to him when he owled for her. Sometimes they met in seedy inns, sometimes they met in dark alleys and dungeons. Sometimes they fucked in the grass, in the dirt, like animals. And sometimes he took her into his bed, though that was rare.

When she got home, she always asked herself why she did it, why she went. But she already knew the answer. The man she loved and had expected to spend her life with had run off to start a happy little family with Daphne Greengrass’ bint of a sister. It was no small consolation to fuck his father.

And Lucius was, by no means, a mere consolation prize. Despite his years, he was still a lean, muscular, handsome man. His hair was shorter now than it had been in her childhood, but still enough to run her fingers through- to grab, when he let her- and white-blond. He was skilled in magic, in pain, in pleasure. Good- too good- with his hands and mouth and words.

That was why she did it.

Though she honestly didn’t know what she meant to him.




Come see me. Apparition points enclosed.

-L


The letters always read that way. Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less.

Pansy Apparated home first, to change. He hadn’t specified what she was supposed to wear, but generally he liked things that were tight, short, and easy to remove. She settled on a red mini dress with a zipper that ran along the entire length of her spine. If she was lucky, he’d actually unzip it rather than cut it off of her.

She left her purse and everything but her wand on her dresser- she had no need to bring anything along, and she never stayed more than a few hours. Lucius was not a man to cuddle afterward.

She followed his directions and found herself outside the door of one of his favorite locations. It was fair to say she frequented here.

She didn’t bother knocking, but simply stepped through the door. He was waiting. Her wand was gone in an instant.

Suddenly, his arms were around her. Strong fingers around her wrists, dragging her toward the center of the room, where two chains and a set of cuffs hung from a horizontal pipe on the ceiling.

“Hello, Lucius,” she said dryly, as the cuffs clicked into place. The chains lifted up and her arms stretched over her head. She felt him kick her pumps out from under her feet, so that she was standing on her tiptoes, back arched as she tried to balance her weight.

“It’s sir to you, if I allow you to speak at all.” A blindfold whipped around her eyes. Silk. She smiled. He threatened, but always let her speak, if she didn’t say too much.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, and demurely bowed her head. He said nothing, and she felt the brush of his robes as he moved away from her.

She knew he was watching her. It was a mind game. He always waited until the panic bubbled up, until she started to wonder whether or not he would leave her there forever. Until the muscles of her calves burned, until tiny beads of sweat formed along her thighs, her neck, her back. Until she twisted and tugged against the chains that bound her arms, desperate for release. Until the question she always asked pounded in her mind, until she wanted to scream it.

Then he came back.

She jumped as the zipper moved along her spine, goosebumps rising on her flesh in the wake of the cool air that ran across her skin as he peeled her dress away. She’d worn no bra, only flimsy red knickers, which Lucius disposed of with one sharp tug.

She gasped as the elastic snapped across her skin, and he answered with a sharp backhand to her arse.

“Quiet.”

She didn’t answer, made no further noise. She only waited with bated breath, for something, anything to happen.

He had perfect timing. Just as she’d started to lose focus, to drift out of the dark little room-

SMACK.

The sharp crack of the whip on her back echoed through the room, following the echo of her scream. It fell again, and again, licking the underside of her breasts and up her sides as it wrapped around her body. She screamed until she was hoarse, she twisted and writhed.

But she didn’t bleed. Lucius had a careful hand, and he never let her bleed.

He stopped as abruptly as he’d begun, leaving her sweat-slicked and panting.

Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. Another. She was starting to lose feeling in her fingers.

“Lucius?” she called out finally, her voice small. A chuckle to her left reassured her that he was still there.

“Begging, already?”

“I didn’t say please,” she argued, faintly.

She could hear the smirk in his voice. “You will.”

Then there were hands on her. Smooth caresses as his hands ran along her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She spread her legs for him and he smacked the sensitive skin of her inner thigh for doing so without permission, purposely keeping away from the spot she desperately needed him to touch. He danced around it, teased her swollen folds with his expert fingers. Always pulled away before she could get any real satisfaction. Bastard.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please!” she screamed, and he chuckled, crooking two fingers inside her while his thumb pressed against her clit. It took only a handful of strokes- four, maybe five, before she unraveled. She clenched against his fingers, every muscle in her body tensed as she came.

He didn’t give her time to recover before he released the tension in her chains. Without the support, her feet gave out. Generally, she crumpled to the floor and he fucked her there.

But tonight, he caught her. He molded her aching arms around his shoulders, grabbed her wand, and took her home.

She groaned as he deposited her into her bed; the feeling had come back into her arms, and the first faint tingles of the blood rushing back had shifted into stabbing pins and needles.

She expected him to come into her bed. To use her body, her mouth, for his own pleasure. But to her surprise, he stepped away from the bed and moved toward the door.

“Lucius, aren’t you going to-?” She gingerly propped herself up on her elbows to watch him, trying not to sound disappointed.

“Not tonight,” he said simply, and was gone.




It had started as a game.

Lucius had found her, little Pansy Parkinson- though not so little anymore- sitting on a barstool in a seedy London pub. He’d been looking for someone else, gone there to collect on a debt.

But he’d found her, instead.

“Miss Parkinson,” he’d said, politely, as he took the empty chair next to her. It was a marvel it was empty- she was by far the most attractive thing in the room, though that wasn't saying much. Maybe it was obvious she didn’t fit there, didn’t belong.

“Rub it in,” she said bitterly, taking a healthy swig of whatever she was drinking. Something red, that smelled vaguely sweet and fruity.

“Ah,” Lucius said. Draco’s wedding had taken place the week prior.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps I needed a drink.”

She eyed him carefully, took in his fine robes and calm demeanor. “Doubtful.”

Lucius smirked. Whether it was the alcohol or simply her personality, he appreciated her honesty. He leaned closer to her; his words brushed softly against her cheek.

“Perhaps I came to find someone who owes me money. A rather large sum, unfortunately. And I intended, when I found him, either to collect that money, or to send the remaining parts of him in a box to his family.”

Pansy’s eyes went wide. Partly intrigued, partly horrified. “Just like that?”

Lucius arched an eyebrow, unfazed. “Just like that.”

She took another swill of her drink. “That’s... wow.”

He took a moment to look the girl over. She was probably twenty-three, twenty-four now. Pretty. Small, petite little features, but they suited her. Shoulder-length, shiny black hair, fringe that wouldn’t stay out of her eyes. Small, pert breasts, small curves. Nothing at all that reminded him of his leggy, blonde, dead wife.

Pansy glanced back at him and caught his appraisal. She smirked, and he ran a finger along her shoulder. She shivered.

“Are you afraid of me, Miss Parkinson?”

She considered this for a moment, but met his gaze with her dark eyes. “No.”

“Come home with me.”

And for whatever reason, she did.




Pansy examined herself carefully the next morning. She gently pressed her fingers into the blue bruises at her wrists and twisted in front of the mirror to see the thin, red lines marked across her back.

She knew it would be a while before she saw Lucius again. He always waited until the bruises had healed and the welts had disappeared. They were tiny, secret calendars. In the interim, Pansy went on with her normal, daily life.

She had a desk job at the Ministry, where she sorted and filed parchments and notices and did a lot of pointless, inane tasks. She didn’t put a lot of effort into her work, called in sick often, and found every possible excuse to not work while at work.

She had a small flat in London, nothing fancy, but it suited her well enough. She had girlfriends to go clubbing or shopping with on weekends, and men who occasionally bought her dinner or took her out for lunch. She had plenty of books to read, exciting things to chat about. Enough to keep her occupied.

But nonetheless, she found herself checking her bruises every day, watching them fade from blue, to green, to brown, before they faded from her skin completely.

And then she’d get impatient, waiting for Lucius.




He wondered sometimes, how it had evolved into this. Wondered more often where it was going. He’d only intended for a one-night stand. Someone to temporarily warm the other side of his vast and empty bed.

He hadn’t expected Pansy to light it up the way she did.

She liked it when he bit her nipples. She liked to be fucked roughly. She liked her hair pulled, liked to be spanked. She clawed his back and urged “harder, faster, more Lucius, God, Lucius, more,” with panting, keening, little breaths.

She was intoxicating, insatiable. Addicting.

She feared nothing. Not even him. She was too much.

He hadn’t planned on seeing her again.

But he had, one day in Diagon. Months later. She still had that knowing, little smirk. “Mr. Malfoy,” she’d said, coyly, as she passed.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to grab her wrist and yank her down Knockturn Alley. Wasn’t sure what possessed him to throw her up against a brick wall and thrust his cock into her. But she hadn’t resisted. She’d wrapped her legs around him and raked her fingers through his hair. Bit her lip to keep from crying out. Though in Knockturn, really, it was wasted effort.

From there it was a short leap to fucking in lavatories. That led to bending her over his desk, her delighted little moans as first his hands, then his cane, fell upon her upturned arse.

Dungeons and whips and chains followed. A twisted, but logical, progression.

What next, he would wonder, in her absence. When the house and all its empty rooms and furniture started to grow cold, and he grew restless.

What next?




Weeks passed, then months.

Pansy spent weekends out on the town, went on several dates, a few repeat dates, and had sex- just once.

She didn’t like it; he was boring. He breathed into her ear, hot, sticky. His hands fumbled to unclasp her bra, fumbled similarly to find her clit, with no avail.

He pushed into her, but she wasn’t wet. She lay there, unpleasantly, while he said things like, “Yeah, baby, do you like that? Does that feel good? Do I make you wet?”

It felt wrong, and he was sweaty. Eventually, she screamed that he was awful and shoved him off.

Finally, close to Christmas, a letter came.


Come see me. Apparition points enclosed.

-L

P.S.- little black dress.


She gaped at it.

It had been nearly five months since she’d heard from him. Five months, countless vodka cranberries, and the one dismal attempt at fornication later, he deigned to owl her.

Her return note- the first return note ever, actually- was straightforward.


Go fuck yourself.

-P


His owl returned five minutes later.


I’ll be waiting anyway.


She’d intended to make him sweat it. Make him wait, aching. Let him count the minutes as they ticked into hours, for a change.

But really, she’d already waited months. Despite her self-assurances that she was never going to see him again, that she would move on with her life, a small part of her had kept waiting anyway.

And that part of her was very excited to see him tonight.

And really, her best little black dress was in the front of her closet, and her hair and everything else was still acceptable from work earlier in the day.

By the end of it, she’d only stalled for a pathetic fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before she Apparated to the coordinates he specified.

Much to her surprise, she found herself not in Lucius’ study, a secluded clearing, or any other dark, seedy place. She was standing outside a very posh London restaurant. One that she certainly couldn’t afford on her current dismal salary.

Pansy stood and looked around for a moment, unsure of what she was expected to do. He’d given no further instruction other than to show up. Was she supposed to wait for him, demure and unassuming? Was she supposed to head around back, and meet him there?

Five more minutes ticked by, and finally she decided to stroll in the front door and ask if anyone had seen Lucius. She wouldn’t ask for him by first name, of course, and even then it wasn’t the most discreet option. But he had made her wait five months, and now it was looking like she’d been stood up.

But she didn’t have a chance to say anything at all to anyone. The second she stepped through the door, a waiting Maitre d’ called her name.

“Miss Parkinson?”

Stupidly, she turned around to see if there were any other Miss Parkinsons. The Maitre d’ smiled patiently. “Right this way, Miss. Your companion is waiting.”

Pansy glanced around again, suspicious, but followed. Companion?

He led her to a corner table where Lucius was already waiting. He rose to pull out her chair. Pansy eyed him warily, then seated herself.

“Thank you,” she said, belatedly, and the Maitre d’ bustled off once Lucius was seated again.

Neither of them said anything. Lucius was perfectly at ease, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. Pansy simply stared at him.

“What are we doing here?” she finally asked.

Lucius’ face was inscrutable. “What does it look like? I’m taking you to dinner.”

Pansy glanced around at the other couples in the room. She had no idea who any of them were, but she assumed they must be rich and important. She doubted any of them were into kinky basement sex, so obviously, she had nothing in common with them. But Lucius had done nothing to hide her. He hadn’t bought out a private room.

They were together, out in the open. Like a proper... date.

“What’s the catch?” she persisted, but more quietly.

Lucius arched an eyebrow. God, that expression. Pansy crossed her legs under the table.

“Am I not allowed to take a beautiful woman out to dinner?”

She blushed at the compliment, and turned her head away from him. “Of course you’re allowed. I just didn’t expect it.”

The Maitre d’ bustled back with a bottle of red wine. It was one of those places so fancy that you didn’t even have to trouble yourself with ordering. They just brought out plate after plate, each course more expensive than the last.

Dinner passed in disconcerting normalcy. They talked easily about politics, of favorite places to travel. What music she liked to listen to, what books she liked to read. Did she like the opera, the ballet?

Lucius offered little about himself; he was much more interested in her likes, dislikes, aspirations. Over the course of a few hours, she’d talked more with Lucius Malfoy than she had in her entire lifetime. And she rather enjoyed it.

The dessert course finally came, a rich chocolate cake, dripping with caramel and white chocolate. Pansy picked at an accompanying raspberry. After four courses, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to eat again, much less chocolate cake.

The Maitre d’ poured her another glass of wine- her third? fourth?- a sweet, delicate white to go with the dessert.

She didn’t notice until she took her first sip that Lucius’s first glass of red wine was still sitting on the table, untouched.

“Not a fan?” she murmured, tapping the rim of her glass.

He offered a small smile. “I prefer brandy, but not with dinner.”

She nodded, idly dragging her fork through the pretty lines of caramel drizzle.

“Come sit next to me,” he said. She looked up at him, surprised, but nodded. She grabbed her wine glass and scooted into the chair next to him.

He raised his hand and brushed it along the side of her face. She barely had time to be surprised by the gentle gesture before he’d pulled it away again.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Pansy?”

She eyed him carefully, trying to figure out what he was playing at. Her answer was dry, a little bitter. “Decidedly not.”

He didn’t reply, only moved his hand to her bare knee, then skimmed it up her thigh. His fingers came to rest just below the fabric of her dress. Not moving, just a warm, gentle pressure there.

Tense and distracted, she took another sip of wine.

“Where have you been?” Her tone was light, casual. Careful to seem simply curious.

He leaned toward her, amused. His hand moved, pushing the lace hem of her dress higher up her thigh. Her breath hitched, and he laughed.

“Why, did you miss me?”

Pansy struggled to focus, through the fog of the wine and the heat of his hand steadily creeping up her thigh. She was supposed to come up with some offhand remark. That was their game. Something witty, like he was so good at.

Lucius pulled her leg gently toward him, lifting it up so that her knee was draped across his.

She clutched her wine glass, fingers trembling slightly.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, a lazy breath against her ear. She bit her lip, and he pressed his fingers into the thin, soaked fabric of her knickers.

“Yes!” she said, a little too loudly, as the pad of his middle finger dragged along her clit.

He laughed again, low and cruel. Pansy took a gulp of wine and nearly choked on it as his fingers worked her under the table.

She set the glass down, unable to trust that she wouldn’t spill it. She braced one hand on the edge of her chair, and the other at the corner of the table. It was all she could do to keep from throwing her head back and slinking down into the floor.

She was close, so close. Her eyes fluttered closed and she tried to press her legs together, but it was impossible in the position she was in, and Lucius wouldn’t allow it.

”Lucius...” she hissed, through gritted teeth. She was going to burst into pieces.

But then his hand was gone. He slid her leg back to the floor, wiped his fingers on his napkin.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Miss Parkinson.”

She gaped at him, torn between desperation, frustration, and absolute, utter confusion.

He bent down and kissed the very corner of her mouth, then stood and strolled out of the room, just as easily as ever.

Pansy sank back in her chair and managed to snap her fingers.

“Waiter? More wine.”




Lucius didn’t know whether to declare his experiment with Pansy a great success or an absolute failure.

On the one hand, the girl was charming. Intelligent, entertaining, amusing. Independent. Much changed from the simpering girl of fifteen who had clung to Draco’s heels.

On the other, he didn’t want her to be charming. He wanted her to be as he remembered- flat, forgettable. Disposable. Maybe then he could go back to fucking her without consequence. If she was just a body, just a girl. Better yet, he could go back to life without Pansy at all.

He didn’t want to be interested in her life, her dreams, her career. Why did it matter to him if she preferred Moliere and Mozart? Red wine to white? He didn’t, shouldn’t, care.

The girl was young enough to be his daughter. She’d very likely fucked his son. It was sick, twisted. Almost Oedipal, even.

She had only been an exercise in ego, a game to see if he could still snag a pretty twenty-something and bring her into his bed. Obviously, he’d succeeded. There was no reason for it to continue, but it had.

He vowed to end it.

Weeks passed, then months. She slipped from his mind little by little each day, and it got easier as time passed. He dreamed of her less, stopped waking up with visions of her body, twisted and bound and waiting for him. He stopped thinking of how she looked when she came- how pretty her throat looked when she threw her head back. Stopped thinking of her laugh, her smile. The way her lips wrapped around a wine glass, his cock. Stopped thinking of the way she’d always trusted him completely, implicitly.

It was better that way.




Pansy had torn through her closet a thousand times, looking for the stupid thing. She couldn’t remember when she’d last worn it- over a year ago, which meant it was suitable to wear again out in society. People would hardly remember. But a year... how on earth was she supposed to remember what she’d done with it a year ago?

She was headed to a very important Ministry gala. She didn’t particularly care who was being honored or why, but there would be lots of important people there. And she had a date she was rather fond of. She hesitated to call him her boyfriend, but they’d gone out several times, shagged a couple of times. He was fun, good in bed. He didn’t have pale, practiced hands- but she did her best not to think about those anymore. She liked him, now.

It had been a good year. She’d been promoted to a slightly-less stupid and pointless job. She’d gotten a new, nicer flat with her new, slightly-less laughable and dismal salary. She was happy.

Except she couldn’t find the bloody dress. It was provocative, but elegant. Edgy enough to be a conversation starter, but not too much to be desperate. Not to mention two very important facts: she looked fantastic in red, and she had absolutely nothing else to wear.

She’d already yanked the last item from her closet and threw it on the bed by the time she finally remembered. The dress wasn’t here. Lucius had peeled it off her, the last time they'd...

“Damn it!” She launched a stray shoe across the room. “And my best black pumps, too.”

She fell back onto the bed, resigned to wear something boring to the party. Boring, and now wrinkled, as she was more than likely lying on anything remotely wearable.

But then she sat up again. Why couldn’t she get it back? Just because he was an insufferable prick who had taken her out for a lovely dinner and then never said another word didn’t mean they weren’t reasonable adults and that she couldn’t get her dress back.

She plucked a stray pair of tights off of her back and reached for her wand. She was going to march straight up to Malfoy’s front door and... no. She had a better idea.

Pansy ran to her desk and thumbed through the letters she’d saved, picking out the coordinates she needed. Then she set to digging through the massive pile on her bed. She definitely wasn’t going over there dressed like this.




Lucius felt the jolt of magic as someone breached his wards.

He grabbed his wand and started toward the grounds, but there was a faint creak of the floorboards upstairs. A door clicked closed.

Lucius tore up the stairs. His study.

He flung open the door, any number of curses ready and waiting, bubbling up behind his lips as soon as he had a target.

But he didn’t find an intruder. A small, brunette witch was perched on the edge of his desk, wearing a Slytherin school uniform and that little smirk.

She arched an eyebrow at him, her lips curling up into a demure smile.

“Hello, sir.”

Lucius glared at her. Eventually he lowered the wand trained on her throat. Straightened his tie. Collected himself. “Miss Parkinson,” he finally said, carefully.

“Did you miss me?” she asked coyly, then slowly, deliberately crossed her legs. Lucius caught a flash of lacy white knickers.

He didn’t answer. Simply crossed the room, his eyes never leaving her. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by for my dress,” she said. “You still have it, and I’ve a party to go to.”

“Dress?” Lucius repeated, dropping into an armchair. He refused to stand too close to her, but he was tired of pacing.

“You know, the red one. I wore it the last time.”

“Ah, right,” Lucius said. “I threw it out. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound apologetic.

“Oh,” Pansy said simply, with a small frown. She glanced around the desk, then batted a small glass paperweight onto the floor. She smiled when it shattered.

“Sorry,” she said, noncommittally.

Lucius was on his feet again in an instant. “I liked that,” he growled.

Pansy shrugged and flicked an ink bottle over the oak ledge of the desk. Blue ink blossomed into the wood floor. “I liked that dress.”

When she reached for his brandy bottle, he launched across the room. His fingers caught her small wrist, pressing so hard she would have bruises. His face was so close that his breath ruffled her fringe. ”Don’t.”

Pansy kept his gaze, hoping he couldn’t feel her heart pounding. She’d never seen him like this. Lucius was always so controlled, always composed. Never furious, never truly threatening. Part of her was terrified, the other part thrilled.

The latter part won out. Before he could catch her other arm, she swung it back, sending the brandy crashing to the floor. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Lucius moved.

He grabbed her other wrist and yanked her off the desk only long enough to spin her around, then shoved her forward again. Pansy managed to brace her arms in front before she smacked her face into the polished wood. Lucius pressed up against her, trapping her with his body. Normally she didn’t mind the position, but it wasn’t necessarily one she wanted to die in.

Then she felt his hands roaming up her body. He leaned forward and tugged her back so that he could bite at her neck. Pansy hissed and pressed back into him. Lucius growled and tugged roughly at her too-tight blouse, sending buttons flying.

“This what you were hoping for?” he asked, voice rough. She gasped as deft fingers slipped underneath her bra. She could feel his cock- hard, as he pressed against her.

“No,” she lied, arching her back.

He scoffed, a puff of air on her neck.

“Sitting on my desk, arse all over my important papers, dressed like a trollop.” He dipped a hand under her skirt and she squealed. “Wet. Aching for it.”

She wiggled her hips impatiently. “You mind getting on with it? I’ve got a party to get to.”

“No you don’t,” Lucius said darkly, and the tone of his voice made her shiver. “The brandy that my floor is now currently drinking, do you know how old it was?”

Pansy bit back a smart remark when she heard him undo his belt.

“1912. Older than you. Older than me. Aged in the finest oak casks for five years before it was bottled. Only 4,000 bottles in the entire vintage.”

His belt clattered to the floor and Pansy breathed a sigh of relief. If it was on the floor, it wouldn’t be in his hand. Then she felt his fingers brush against her skirt as he worked the buttons of his trousers.

“Do you have any idea how much a bottle like that costs, Miss Parkinson?”

He flicked up her skirt, languidly palming the curves of her arse. Then he smacked, hard, with the back of his hand. Pansy jumped.

“Do you?” he repeated, and pulled his hand away. She tensed in anticipation of the next blow.

“Not the faintest,” she choked out. He brought down his hand again, even harder.

“One hundred fifty Galleons.” Lucius smoothed his hands up her thighs, dipping, teasing. Then he yanked her knickers down. Pansy arched back, positively keening.

“For fuck’s sake, why would you spend that much on brandy?”

Lucius grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her upright. He licked at the back of her neck, then flicked his tongue along her ear. She let out a breathy, pained little moan.

“I didn’t expect some spoiled little tart to throw it on the floor.” He roughly shoved her forward again, then forced her legs apart with his knee.

“Sorry,” Pansy breathed, and they both knew she didn’t mean it. Lucius pressed the head of his cock against her tight entrance. Fuck, she was wet.

She whined, pressing back as he teased. “Lucius...” she hissed. ”Please.”

That did it. Every time.

He slammed into her, fingers pressed tightly into her hips, and she screamed with pleasure, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Yes. Please. More. God. Lucius. Fuck. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop...”

She was tight, so tight, and he could feel her clenching around him.

“Come for me, Pansy.”

She did. Shaking, trembling, screaming. She came, for him, when he said her name.




Pansy woke with the awful, sinking feeling of having no idea where she was. She opened her eyes to unfamiliar blue curtains, and a duvet that was much too nice to be hers. She was also dressed in a men’s shirt that decidedly did not belong to her, and, presumably, that man’s arm was draped across her stomach.

God, what am I doing here?

She sat up, trying not to panic.

“There a problem?” drawled a sleepy voice next to her, and she eased back down.

Oh.

She pressed her fingers tentatively into his bicep, making sure it really was Lucius lying next to her, not some sort of sex-induced hallucination.

“What time is it?” she whispered.

He pulled his arm back, dragging her across the bed with it, until she was curled into him.

“Late,” he murmured into her hair.

Her heart skipped a beat. Late, and she was still here. He was still here.

“Your boyfriend owled. Looking for you.” There was a distinct note of disdain, and Pansy smiled.

“Not my boyfriend,” she murmured, settling back against him.

“Oh?” Lucius tightened his hold around her waist. “You might have told me earlier.”

Pansy frowned. “What does it matter?”

“Had I known, I wouldn’t have sent him a note with your knickers.”

Pansy gasped, horrified. “You didn’t!” She felt Lucius’ laughter against her neck and swatted at his arm. “I work with him. And now I have no knickers.”

Lucius was decidedly unapologetic, about either situation. “And?”

Pansy turned over to look at him, still only half-believing he was there. “And I think...” she took a breath. If she didn’t say it, he might leave again. He might leave again anyway. But she didn’t want to go another six months without him. Despite his massive ego, the man was perfect. He gave her exactly what she wanted, needed. He gave her what she didn’t know she needed.

She tried again. “Lucius, I think I’m in love with you.”

He smirked. Smug, and absolutely unsurprised. “Of course you are.”

Then, for the first time, he kissed her. And she felt, for the first time, that here was exactly where she needed to be.