Title: First Taste of Corruption
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: M
Pairing: Sirius/Lucius, (background Lucius/Narcissa)
Warnings: strong slash, underage (not very much so)
Summary: You don't want this, this sickness, this disease, this taint of every family you know. You don't want twisting kisses that taste of magic and shame and carnality. Sirius doesn't want Lucius, except he does. Lucius/Sirius
Sirius hated it here. Beyond all rhythm and reason, beyond all coherence and rationality. Hated everything about the place, from his younger brother, to the house-elves heads that decorated the stairs, and whose eyes seemed to follow him mournfully as he passed by them. It was a stifling closet of hatred, of Dark love and Black family. Everywhere he turned there were people. There was his mother, haughty and imperious in robes of purest midnight black, there was Narcissa delicate and resplendent in pale blue, like a flower just opening, a steel lily arrayed in all its beauty. There was Bellatrix her ripe rotting aura clustered close about her, like something that had clambered from under a rock. Andromeda- plain in comparison to her sisters, but pretty nonetheless in a slightly faded way, who seemed to flicker slightly, as though less real than the rest of them
They were a beautiful family, Sirius considered mournfully. You'd have thought generations of inbreeding would have bred it out of them, but somehow the looks endured, as did the other qualities that so perfectly marked a Black out. Even the mirror told him, what he would rather have not known, that the face which gazed back was one that was echoed in various family portraits. He gave himself an impatient little shake. He was being ridiculous.
Grimmauld Place was the Black's main London residence, and thus when important business was conducted- it was here that the family stayed, rather than in various residences strewn out across England. And this was an important event. Narcissa Black had delicately expressed an interest, in allowing the courtship of one Lucius Malfoy to begin. Courtship could take years of course, this was no more than the beginning. Sirius sighed loudly to himself. It was ridiculous. He would know Malfoy by sight probably, though the other man had been in sixth year when he had started their first year. Since he was fifteen now, that would make Lucius around twenty, and Sirius could only vaguely remember what he looked like- blond hair that had reportedly been in the Malfoy line since they'd come over in 1066 with the Normans, and of course that pale, pale skin.
He licked his lips, the heat from the fire having dried them out and restrained a shiver when he thought of Abraxus Malfoy. A man notable only for his complete lack of morality, who was devoid of the restraint that every respectable pureblood showed, no matter what his appetites. He had flaunted his younger lovers, confident in the wealth and the heritage that would always protect him, in the magic that was his by birthright. Again, Sirius had never known him except from portraits, where the man- forever young by Wizard standards (it was tradition in some Wizarding families, to ensure no challenge for the inheritance,) gazed out, with a far remote stare that spoke more of indifference than his rumoured corruption.
When he walked into the dining room, he was alone. There was only one other figure there, a man leaning on the carefully wrought fireplace, staring into the dancing flames. The soft glow lit pale hair into a tawny gold, and cast shadows on the striking face, and Sirius fell into the terrible eyes that awaited him. Standing in the doorway he felt as though he had frozen, his tongue had cleaved to his mouth, and something deep inside him ached. Lucius moved first of course. Sweeping over, he stood in front of Sirius, inches taller despite Sirius's most recent growth spurt. "Sirius Black?" he asked, and the syllables were like honey dripping from a serpent's tongue. Dimly he nodded, and felt warm lips brush first one cheek than the other, in the Continental salute that some wizards preferred.
"Lucius Malfoy," was the reply, and then the man had left the room, leaving Sirius stumbling to the nearest chair, ashamed of the bolt of lust that had struck through him, ashamed that Abraxus Malfoy's son had elicited a reaction that the sweetest girl at Hogwarts had failed to do so. You're a Gryffindor, he told himself darkly. You don't want this, this sickness, this disease, this taint of every family you know. You don't want twisting kisses that taste of magic and shame and carnality, you want what every member of the light wants, someone like James wants. Lily, Imelda, Susannah, all those gorgeous Gryffindor girls, and Hufflepuff beauties. When you were eleven years old that's what you chose, you chose to leave this life behind, to choose what was right and pure and good.
He remained for a long time in the darkened room, until the house-elves came in and unobtrusively laid the table for dinner. Dinner itself was a whole new form of torture. Narcissa sat across from him, her gaze quietly secretive, to one side was his brother Regulus, two years younger and already with the light of innocence faded from his eyes, and on the other Lucius who was perfectly correct with his every word and movement, and who only touched him once- when they reached for the same salt-cellar, pale hand mistakenly touching his. They murmur apologies, and Sirius refuses to think of anything but how much he loathes his family. The night seems to go on forever, but eventually Sirius is excused from the table, and he takes off immediately.
Thudding through the snow that scatters the streets, he curses Narcissa and her betrothal, making him return home at Christmas from the castle and friends he loves, to share a house with people who he has nothing in common with at all, nothing in common with except a past shared with blood and foul secrets. When he arrives back, all the conversation comes from the adjacent drawing rooms, with their walls pulled back, so all the guests may socialise and talk. He recognises his mother's harshly grating, yet undeniably aristocratic voice, his brother's high nasal drone that is oh so Slytherin, where nothing he says really means anything at all, and yet means everything to the right person.
When he sneaks upstairs though, he runs full tilt accidentally into the last person he wishes to see. Lucius Malfoy has just exited the guest bedroom, looking as impeccable as he did hours ago. Sirius stumbles out his excuses, pretends his face doesn't flush with blood and humiliation when he thinks of what he'd like to be doing. It's the touch to his cheek that undoes him though, that and the two glasses of elf-made wine he sneaked at dinner that is sitting uneasily with the roast pheasant in his stomach. It warms him, makes him impulsive in ways that he knows he will regret in the morning. They've all heard the whispers, whispers of an evil force in the world, gathering power, and of how so many of the pureblood families are mixed up with it, and he knows with every instinct he possesses- Gryffindor and Slytherin that the Malfoy's are more than incidental. It's not enough to stop him though, leaning up with sweetened breath to taste and touch his cousin's fiancé. Lucius is unmoving at first, letting curious lips slant over his, scarcely breathing as Sirius takes advantage and tentatively opens his mouth, letting his tongue dance slowly over Lucius's closed mouth.
Then with a muffled curse he has freed himself, but only for a second, only long enough to seize Sirius's shoulders and swing him against the wall, and if Sirius had enjoyed the light unreciprocal touches, if they has been delicate warmth spreading through his limbs, well this, this is a furnace. This is what he imagines being caught in a fire would feel like. Lucius isn't just kissing him, he's plundering him, tongue ruthlessly swiping out his secrets, filling him with a dull pulsing need that he is pretty sure isn't merely the wine's doing. He can feel himself sway helplessly against perfectly pressed robes, feel a rough hand rake through his hair.
The only thought going through his mind apart from that he wanted more is that he shouldn't have done this. Because compared to his schoolmates, compared to James and Remus and Peter, Sirius is Slytherin and subtle, is tinged with Dark where they are pure Light, his mind understands and sees things better than theirs does, and oh God that makes him want to laugh, because compared to Malfoy he is like a babe in the wood, is wetter behind the ears than a first year Slytherin, he's hopelessly entrapped, and falling, and of all of them he should have been best prepared.
But that little self destructive part of his mind, the one that had forced the Hat to choose Gryffindor, that had kissed Lily in front of James for a dare, and that baited his mother until her fingernails cut into her palms and drew blood, was writhing oh so eagerly in his mind, wanted more than kisses, however hard they were, wanted Lucius in a thousand ways, ways he didn't even have words for, things he'd never done except in fantasies, and the odd bit of casual experimentation, because this wasn't like Victoria Wilbert letting him kiss her, or touch her, or even fuck her, this made blood rush to his cock, made thick and heavy exultation more than a thought. Lucius seemed to sense this, because he roughly tore himself away.
"How old are you?" he demanded, as though age was what would determine that this was wrong, rather than the fact that Sirius and Narcissa were cousins, that he was older, that he was Dark.
Sirius looked him straight in the eye and twisted the truth a little bit. "I'm sixteen," he said, which was almost not a lie, because in a few months it would be true. He's not sure if Lucius believes him or not, but knows it doesn't matter, when Lucius smirks, a feral grin that hits something primitive in Sirius, and suddenly he is a little afraid, but oh fuck thoughts of Abraxus are running through his mind, and the word perversion that he'd heard whispered from time to time in connection with that name, instead of making him feel afraid as he should properly be, instead serve to incite him.
Moments later they have tumbled into the guest room, and as Sirius hastily strips himself, and Lucius elegantly waves his wand and removed his clothes, the little suicidal part of himself is baying for blood, for something as filthy and wrong as this will prove to be. He doesn't feel fifteen most of the time, but Lucius's hand on his cock, doing nothing but touching, is proving that however old his mind is, his body has the same desperate need as any teenager, and he bucks up into that light touch. He is distracted for a moment, by Lucius naked, because the only word for the other man is gorgeous. Long, lean body, sparsely muscled to be sure, but strong enough for all that. His hair just about sweeps his shoulders, and though on any other man it would effeminate and well homosexual,on Lucius it makes him look distinguished and rather unearthly. Then Lucius is touching him properly, and it's enough to make him cry out, and be glad that Lucius had thought of a silencing charm.
He didn't really expect stupidly enough for Lucius to have any better an idea about what to do than Victoria had, had, but a few seconds disabused him of that notion. Where Victoria's hands had been limp, and somewhat divorced from the activity, as though she actively did not enjoy it, Lucius's hands were firm and hard, and he pulled with just the slightest hint of a twist, hard enough that there was the slightest touch of pain in with the pleasure, and it was so much better than any touch had felt before. He was dimly aware of a muttered charm, and then the rough hand on his cock was replaced with the rather smoother glide of lubrication. He shuddered upwards against that hand, feeling the warm weight of Lucius leaning over him, and embarrassed as he felt how close he was to orgasm already after such a little time. Yet as mere seconds passed he found himself not caring at all about how long it took him, and what Lucius would think, as about the active need to come now.
He could feel how close he was, his toes curling with abandonment, his hips trying to move, his mind not caring that Lucius's other hand was delicately circling a much more private area, and then he was finally coming, and it was sending shudders all through him, as lights exploded in front of his eyes, in what was easily the strongest orgasm he'd ever had. A cry ripped itself hoarsely from his throat, and he swallows it back, bites his tongue until it almost bleeds, as his body comes down from the best high he has ever had.
When his eyes finally open again, it's to the sight of Lucius stroking himself, not hardly, nor yet softly, but absently, while his eyes remain fixed on Sirius. Sirius himself swallows, wishing that the liquid heat inside him had subsided, to the point where he didn't still feel the need to touch Lucius. Their eyes met, Lucius's ice-grey, Sirius's a little softer. It's a rare enough eye colour that they're aware (with their families history) that it comes from common genes. Maybe that's what drives Sirius, but even as he pushes himself closer, tells himself it's one more rebellion, fucking Narcissa's future husband, he knows that he is lying.
That's the reason he would have failed in Slytherin. He's so very good at convincing even himself of his lies, but not this one. This one burns him with its truth, that he couldn't care less if the entire Black family walked in on them in this moment, if it meant Lucius would still touch him. He takes a deep shuddering breath, and refuses to think about what this might mean for everything he's ever held dear. Slowly hesitantly he spread his legs, throwing himself back against soft white pillows, as if hoping that only the ceiling will witness this act of transgression. And he's all of a sudden rather glad of those Black family genes, because Lucius is kneeling over him, and whispering something that sounds very much like beautiful boy.
It's too early for him to get excited again so soon, but despite that as Lucius uses hands and mouth that are far too practiced, all over his body, his cock gives a faint twitch. Again there was a muffled spell, and a moment later he could feel a long slender finger press inside him, sparking signals that he is simply not sure whether they are pleasure or pain. He tightens instinctively, and Lucius stills until he relaxes, and allows a second finger in. It hurts, he decides, but that's not all there is, and after long moments of careful stretching, he feels that other thing.
If he'd ever have been forced to think about it, before this night, he would have bet good money against a wizard like Malfoy bothering to prepare his partners at all, but this certainly put the lie to it. Three fingers, and something inside him seemed to jump as though waiting for a far distant battle call, and he can't stop himself pushing closer to those fingers, which in hindsight seems to be all that Lucius is waiting for, because next moment, he's being turned overly firmly, and he shuts his eyes, and draws in a breath. Relax he tells himself, as he shifts and opens his legs wider, weight concentrated on his arms. Then Lucius is there, pushing into him hard enough, that even with the preparation Sirius's can't restrain a pained gasp. Lucius doesn't seem to notice, or at least the steady motion of his hips doesn't change. It's alien, exciting and unnerving, and when Lucius shifts just right, a feeling unlike any other washes through Sirius, and the pieces click into place.
He is just as enthusiastic now, writhing against the intrusion, his arms shaking as he tries to feel that again. He feels a kiss laid against his spine, and Lucius twists a little, and he can feel the tremors running through his body, and his cock is hard again, in much less time than it's taken him before. It feels like he'll lose his balance if he tries to touch it himself, and has to content himself with the shift of skin against skin. "More," he manages to whisper, and realises his throat is sore. Lucius takes him at his word, and is driving into harder, hitting that spot inside him that is making black dots swim across his vision. Then a long-fingered hand closes around his cock, and suddenly it is all too much, the sensation, and he feels himself falling again, muscles clenching around Lucius, until the other man can barely move. Seconds after the white liquid spatters him, he feels warmth inside him, and the tightening of Lucius's hands.
For a moment they lie exhausted on the bed, and Sirius relishes the warmth, then slowly Lucius pulls out, grabs his wand and mutters two quick cleaning charms. Another swish and they are clothed. Sirius realises now, that he doesn't know what the etiquette for this is. Does he leave first (if he can even walk, he thinks to himself, there is a dull ache spreading through him now), or do they leave together? He doesn't even bother thinking about whether they will do this again.
Lucius solves that for him, by dragging him closer, and kissing him once more breathlessly. He looks Sirius over carefully, straightens his collar, and his eyes fill with some incomprehensible sadness. "You're the Gryffindor one aren't you?" he asks, and Sirius nods. Lucius hesitates, then leans a little closer. "Don't join us," he whispers, and his eyes are still unfathomable. Sirius looks up, with all the questions he can think to ask in his eyes, and on his lips, but Lucius doesn't elaborate. "Leave it to your brother Regulus. They'd crush you." It's as close to an expression of fondness that Lucius would ever get. One last kiss, and Lucius is gone sweeping down the stairs.
It isn't until years later, that Sirius figures out what Lucius meant.
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