Literatti: Fiction By Deslea
Want You To Want Me
Deslea R. Judd
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Lucius Malfoy/Nymphadora Tonks, background Snape/Narcissa.
Spoilers/Timeframe: Second War.
Summary: Tonks is hell-bent on seducing Lucius, in the name of the greater good. Lucius is hell-bent on letting her, in the name of his own. They both get more than they bargained for. More porn than plot, but there's a relationship arc in there, as well. Sons of July missing scene, but stands alone.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Interpretation mine.
More fic: http://fiction.deslea.com
Feedback: Please. deslea at deslea dot com.
There was a knock at the door to Lucius' office.
The man himself was sitting on a daybed near the door. It had not been there before, of course – daybeds were rarely a feature of reputable offices – but Lucius had a flair for the dramatic, and he had Transfigured his props accordingly.
"Come in," he said in a low, sultry voice that was entirely calculated.
Nymphadora came in, catching sight of him as she did so. She cast an appraising eye over him; he did the same.
She was back in her own everyday clothing, he noted; it was, after all, a workday. He couldn't say it was an improvement, but it pleased him to see her as the woman she really was. The stage-managed creature who had flirted with him at the fundraiser had been charming enough, but the woman he glimpsed unawares interested him far more.
Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up off the daybed. "Shut the door."
Just as slowly, she complied, turning away from him to face the door as she did so. He walked around her until he was standing close behind her. She half-turned her face towards him, saying, "The next time you want to see me, Lucius, your owl had better ask nicely. I don't give command performances."
"I didn't mean it like that, my dear," he said silkily.
Her good-natured snort made short work of that. "Rubbish. Of course you did," she said without rancour.
"Perhaps," he murmured, dipping his head to her shoulder and tugging down her jacket to bare her collarbone. Smoothed aside her silvery-purple hair and planted a single, slow kiss there, inhaling the scent of her hair and her skin. He was fascinated by the way her necklace rested against her flesh, the way the silver brought out the gold tones in her skin. Lucius was a sensory creature; he craved deep colour and texture, and he lingered lovingly over the deep red of his carpets and furnishings blending with her silvers and golds. They delighted him; he felt like he was drowning in warmth.
Nymphadora sank her head back against his shoulder. Said without conviction, "What if this isn't what I came here for?"
"Then I dare say you would have slapped my face by now," he murmured into her ear, easing his fingertips into her hair, gently teasing her. She gave a low sound, part sigh, part plea, and turned her head to kiss him over her shoulder. He put his arm around her to cradle her jawbone, feeling the stretch of her tendons as she reached out for him. Felt the weight of her head in his palm as she sank back beneath his lips, opening fully for him, sighing out tiny sounds of need as he began to search her, learning her mouth and the way she moved and the way she tasted and felt. Learned what made her stretch and ache and what made her eyelashes flutter against her cheek and what made her swallow hard.
He broke the kiss, and rasped against her, "I know why you sought me out."
It was a neutral statement, covering everything from seduction to espionage, and deliberately so. The what was not the point. Not now. Not when he had her against the door like this, his world reduced to nothing but her.
"And what do you propose to do about it?" she whispered. Just as neutral. Her voice still shook for him as she shivered under his hands.
"I propose to let it play out. You see, Nymphadora, I don't care about your little intrigue."
She was pressing her head back against him. Searching hungrily for his lips and his fingers. Perhaps not even realising she was doing it. "What do you want, then?"
"Look at me," he said. Urgent. Restraint slipping faster than he could say what he needed to say.
She turned around and sank back against the door. Her eyes were open, wide, almost feral with hunger, and that made him hungry, too.
"I want you to want me," he whispered, closing his lips on her before she could answer, bending over her as her knees gave way and her head fell back. And then she was on her knees before him, her breaths coming in tiny rasps as she wrenched open his trousers.
"You said next time you'd collect," she said, darkly, as if by way of answer.
Just for a moment, he remembered her shuddering into his hand in the cool night air that first night. The flicker of memory aroused him, but he also felt a pang that was entirely foreign and new. He wondered, just for a moment, if the sweeping, drowning things he felt when he looked at her were on his side alone. Wondered, also, at himself - that the pleasing thing she was about to do could seem somehow less than what he wanted with her, so inadequate a reply to his plea. He wondered with a chill what he really wanted, and why it seemed to matter so much.
He rested his forearm on the door over her head, leaning on it, watching as she paused, looking pensively as she held him in her hands. Her whole focus was upon him, curious and startled and oddly reverent. He'd never seen anything like it before, though he'd had no shortage of attentive lovers, and he was suddenly, utterly certain that it was new to her, too.
Another flicker of memory, this time of a different woman, a different time. I love every part of him, Narcissa had blurted one night when the wine was flowing freely, her voice earthy and hungry. He'd glimpsed Narcissa the lover that night, the Narcissa that belonged to another. Now, he wondered if this was what she'd meant, this reverence, this thoughtful study. Wondered if this was what she'd thought so pityingly that he was missing all these years.
It wasn't just in him. Not at all. It was written into the delicate slope of her neck as she looked at him, the way her neck and her shoulders fell in total, utter supplication before him. This was her answer, her wanting in return, and it was the one he needed after all.
Her mouth closed on him, and she sank deeply into him as he bit back a moan. Her whole body moved in slow, languid waves as she melded with him, drawing out his arousal. Slowly. Adoringly. She did that until the heat rose up in his face and he was rocking with her, his breaths coming fast and short and sharp, and even then it was like rolling with her, something they did together. She was making love – making love! – to his cock with her mouth, something he hadn't known was possible. They were finding a rhythm, rising and falling together as surely as if he was buried in her center. There was white heat, yes, but beneath that – beneath that was submerging into something blinding and warm and light.
He felt something rising in him, a tight, clamouring hand around his heart as he looked down on her. Wanted nothing more than to see her face and close his lips onto hers.
Oh, dear God.
He bent down, pulling out of her and tilting her chin up to look at him. Captured her mouth with his, kissing her over and over as she choked out sounds of longing against him, her throat an elegant, taut column drawing his gaze down her shirt to the milky-white swell of flesh beneath. Her mouth was urgent and hungry, and the purple was falling out of her hair, leaving it as silvery-white as his. They were melding, he thought, into a single, swirling wind together. He needed to join with her but in a way they already had.
Her hands were clutching at her shirt, tugging at it compulsively with balled-up fists, her breasts pressing into her arms. "Yes," he growled against her lips, "show me."
"Fuck," she whimpered, wrenching buttons undone, "yes." Her shaking hands found her bra and dragged the fabric down under her breasts to bare them to his gaze. He touched her with questing hands, stroked her down the sideswell of them before finding their peaks, but he barely looked at them. Just a glimpse, just enough to see loveliness, before his eyes were dragged back to her upturned ones once more.
"You're exquisite," he breathed, the word skittering out over shaking breaths.
Her reply was flippant, desperate attempt to rein in something between them that was already far too far gone, but her voice was a choking sound of desperation. "I bet you say that to all the-"
"No," he said. "I don't."
All the fight left her then. Her jaw wavered, and there was something soft in her voice as she whispered, "Oh, God, Lucius." Her arms were winding up around his neck, tugging him down to his knees before her. Then, with a nakedness that seemed to hurt her, she said, "I do want you."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Just tugged her hard against him and kissed her, harder and deeper than he'd kissed her before. She gasped, taken aback, then met him just as hard. Made tiny mewling sounds, her hands deep in his hair, gasping when he slipped his hand up her skirt, between her thighs. Her knickers were flimsy, and he tugged at them with clumsy, urgent movements, and they tore under his hands. She gave a shaking, watery sound of amusement beneath his lips, and he gasped, "Sorry – I'll fix them –"
"I don't care," she growled, pushing him down and positioning herself astride him. Sank down onto him with a groan; she was warm and deliciously moist and she held him there, seized hard and deep within her. "Oh, God. Oh, Merlin."
"Close," he blurted, tugging her down, pressing her hard against him as she began to rock her hips, riding him, grinding hard against him. He couldn't get her near enough.
"Closer," she countered, levering them, rolling him on top of her, surprising him with her strength. Well, he supposed, she was an Auror. She charmed his shirt open so he was flesh to flesh with her. "Oh, God, like that. All you," she choked out, "it's all you." She was lifting her head, cradling his face, about to kiss him as he found their rhythm again, picking up where she'd left off.
He took her hands and kissed hem, holding her eyes with his, and rested them down on the floor over her head. Leaning down to kiss her, pressing her to the floor with his forearms and his lips and his hips, filling her, filling her world.
"Yes?" he breathed. Making sure.
She was already arching and whimpering into his mouth, hips shuddering up into his, finding friction against his pubic bone and grinding into him. Nodded as she cried out his name and other things, pleas and sighs and moans, and then a long, low cry of release.
"Let go," she demanded, in low, urgent breaths as her own climax fell away. "Let me feel it." Cradled his head against her shoulder and clutched at his shoulders as he did, breathing his name into his hair when he came. He came with choked-out sounds, her name over and over, syllables running together. Came, too, with a feeling of arrival, of coming to something that was meant.
At last, he slipped out of her, slipped off of her, drew her into the crook of his arm. Transfigured the rug beneath them into a mattress (he'd been too absorbed in her to think of it earlier).
They stayed there a while. Quiet. Absent-minded touches and murmurs. He kissed her forehead and stroked the hair off her face; it was still silver. He liked it that way; liked to think he was still held close in her mind.
He wondered, what now? Realised he didn't have an answer.
"Nymphadora," he said presently. Lingered lovingly over her name. Then, a bit regretfully, "You don't like that name, do you? They call you Tonks."
She held his gaze unblinking. "I like it when you say it."
He wondered if that was true; realised that he would probably never trust anything she said to him. Not out of bed. Not even now.
"Good," he said evenly. "Then I'll keep calling you it."
She said without reproach, "You were going to anyway."
He smirked. "True enough." Impulsively, he went on, "Stay with me this afternoon."
She gave a rueful shake of her head. "I have a job, Lucius."
He momentarily entertained the merits of having her fired, before conceding rather grudgingly that her career was probably important to her. "Then tonight. Come to me tonight."
She cocked an eyebrow. "At your house?"
"Narcissa and I have separate quarters. I don't enquire about her visitors, and she doesn't ask about mine." He said again, urgently, "Come tonight. Please."
Nymphadora disengaged herself and sat up. "Lucius," she said slowly, "this is going to end badly. It's a disaster in the making. You know that." There was no mileage to be had by saying so, and it was against the interests of the Order; so he knew that she was speaking the absolute truth.
He sat up too. Answered with truth of his own. "I know that. I don't care." And no, he really didn't.
Something seemed to break in her then. She knelt up and took his face between her palms, kissing him urgently. "Lucius," she said. "Make love to me. Again." Then, beneath her breath, "I'm insane. God."
"Let's be insane together," he said.
So he made love to her, and they were insane, it was a disaster, and yet it was meant. It was.
They just had to let it play out.