Mmmm, Tom and Lucius...
Nov. 25th, 2002 02:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letterbladeThis is for Rhysenn, even though she doesn't know it yet. In a fit of fangirlishness a bit back I put her on my friends list (okay, really so I could spy on her to see when IP 15 shows up), and what do I find when I load my friends page this morning but a call for Tom/Lucius smut? And what would I rather do but write Tom/Lucius smut for total strangers? 
Perfect excuse to pin down some bunnies I've been nursing for weeks. (The flashback in this I can actually attribute to my roomie; she's been nursing that bunny since the beginning of term, and it's become a frequently referenced one in our conversations.)
Probably the first bit of three or four, seeing as nothing has actually been done with the diary, and I quite intend to utilize the apocryphal diaryspace to actually get some real-time physical interaction between Tom and Lucius. (IE, smut, if I stick with the bunny and don't freeze up in the middle of a scene like I sometimes do.) Beyond the cut link there is dark kinky sex between evil twisted men, or rather flashbacks concerning dark kinky sex between evil twisted men. Be warned, all ye who enter here. Although I do have a title now...
Lucius Malfoy buried his head in his arms in exasperation.
His wife, icy, unstoppable little thing that she was, had gotten bored and decided to clean out the back room of his study, and was making a terribly theatrical presentation of it, stacking books and papers up in different piles according to their fates, and occasionally chucking a particularly offending object in his general direction.
"Lucius, this ink is totally dried up! I don't care what special mix it is, it's utterly useless! Do you keep everything?"
It was That Time Of The Month, and Narcissa had chosen to take it out on her menfolks' clutter. Eight-year-old Draco's room had already been reduced to spartan spotlessness by an army of terrified house elves, so she had turned her personal attention to the dusty corner clutter of her husband's office.
"And why do you still have this old book? That theory on Cruciatus was disproved years ago, and I'm not even going to go into the balderdash the old man writes on Imperius..."
Lucius banged his head gently against the desk, attempting to sooth his wounded pride. Malfoy patriarch, trusted Death Eater, high-ranking Ministry official--none of it mattered if his wife was on the warpath.
Dark wizards don't take well to being henpecked.
After a riffling of pages, another book soared through the air and landed on his head.
"And honestly, Lucius, keeping around an old diary that nobody's ever even written in!"
Lucius sighed deeply, slid the book off his neck, and smoothed his hair back down. It was a plain old thing, a little black book--and quite blank, he realized, with a quick thumbing. He sighed, and was about to close it and toss it aside when the faded ink of a name on the flyleaf caught his eye.
T. M. Riddle.
Lucius froze.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Slytherin sixth-year prefect when Lucius had entered school. Head Boy when the young Malfoy heir had returned for his second year. Tall, handsome, arrogant, brilliant. So aloof from the younger children that Lucius had felt almost ashamed of the frighteningly deep admiration he'd held for him. Tom Riddle had been the best student in the school, and so very, very Slytherin; Tom Riddle had been cool.
It was only five years later, when his friend Travers had, after realizing young Lucius' obsession with the Dark Arts, taken him to meet the Lord, that he'd known who Tom Riddle was. The shock of finding his own schoolboy crush, identified as the up-and-coming Dark Lord, lounging in an armchair with a snake twined round his arm had been matched only by his awe when Riddle had traced his name in the air and sent the letters flying into their new form. He'd fallen to his knees at his feet--nothing had seemed more right to his seventeen-year-old soul. And from then on it had been dark, frightening ecstasy. Riddle--Voldemort--still looking so much like just Tom, but with a hungry red glint to his eyes--was ruthless, utterly ruthless.
A long shiver passed through Lucius' body at the memory--trembling and naked and utterly submissive, pressed against a cool stone pillar, bound hand and foot by the living bodies of snakes commanded by low hisses from his captor--the sheer thrill of hearing Parseltongue spoken had shaken his soul--and all he could focus on through the haze of trembling excitement had been those eyes, blood red now, boring into his mind until all that was left was the sheer rush of power so dark it hurt, and so terribly beautiful...
Lucius slammed the diary shut, then drew his fingers slowly across the cover. His wife's rantings barely reached his ears. He pocketed the little book, knowing instinctively that it was far, far more than simple blank paper.
Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight.
Perfect excuse to pin down some bunnies I've been nursing for weeks. (The flashback in this I can actually attribute to my roomie; she's been nursing that bunny since the beginning of term, and it's become a frequently referenced one in our conversations.)
Probably the first bit of three or four, seeing as nothing has actually been done with the diary, and I quite intend to utilize the apocryphal diaryspace to actually get some real-time physical interaction between Tom and Lucius. (IE, smut, if I stick with the bunny and don't freeze up in the middle of a scene like I sometimes do.) Beyond the cut link there is dark kinky sex between evil twisted men, or rather flashbacks concerning dark kinky sex between evil twisted men. Be warned, all ye who enter here. Although I do have a title now...
Within These Pages... (1)
Lucius Malfoy buried his head in his arms in exasperation.
His wife, icy, unstoppable little thing that she was, had gotten bored and decided to clean out the back room of his study, and was making a terribly theatrical presentation of it, stacking books and papers up in different piles according to their fates, and occasionally chucking a particularly offending object in his general direction.
"Lucius, this ink is totally dried up! I don't care what special mix it is, it's utterly useless! Do you keep everything?"
It was That Time Of The Month, and Narcissa had chosen to take it out on her menfolks' clutter. Eight-year-old Draco's room had already been reduced to spartan spotlessness by an army of terrified house elves, so she had turned her personal attention to the dusty corner clutter of her husband's office.
"And why do you still have this old book? That theory on Cruciatus was disproved years ago, and I'm not even going to go into the balderdash the old man writes on Imperius..."
Lucius banged his head gently against the desk, attempting to sooth his wounded pride. Malfoy patriarch, trusted Death Eater, high-ranking Ministry official--none of it mattered if his wife was on the warpath.
Dark wizards don't take well to being henpecked.
After a riffling of pages, another book soared through the air and landed on his head.
"And honestly, Lucius, keeping around an old diary that nobody's ever even written in!"
Lucius sighed deeply, slid the book off his neck, and smoothed his hair back down. It was a plain old thing, a little black book--and quite blank, he realized, with a quick thumbing. He sighed, and was about to close it and toss it aside when the faded ink of a name on the flyleaf caught his eye.
T. M. Riddle.
Lucius froze.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. Slytherin sixth-year prefect when Lucius had entered school. Head Boy when the young Malfoy heir had returned for his second year. Tall, handsome, arrogant, brilliant. So aloof from the younger children that Lucius had felt almost ashamed of the frighteningly deep admiration he'd held for him. Tom Riddle had been the best student in the school, and so very, very Slytherin; Tom Riddle had been cool.
It was only five years later, when his friend Travers had, after realizing young Lucius' obsession with the Dark Arts, taken him to meet the Lord, that he'd known who Tom Riddle was. The shock of finding his own schoolboy crush, identified as the up-and-coming Dark Lord, lounging in an armchair with a snake twined round his arm had been matched only by his awe when Riddle had traced his name in the air and sent the letters flying into their new form. He'd fallen to his knees at his feet--nothing had seemed more right to his seventeen-year-old soul. And from then on it had been dark, frightening ecstasy. Riddle--Voldemort--still looking so much like just Tom, but with a hungry red glint to his eyes--was ruthless, utterly ruthless.
A long shiver passed through Lucius' body at the memory--trembling and naked and utterly submissive, pressed against a cool stone pillar, bound hand and foot by the living bodies of snakes commanded by low hisses from his captor--the sheer thrill of hearing Parseltongue spoken had shaken his soul--and all he could focus on through the haze of trembling excitement had been those eyes, blood red now, boring into his mind until all that was left was the sheer rush of power so dark it hurt, and so terribly beautiful...
Lucius slammed the diary shut, then drew his fingers slowly across the cover. His wife's rantings barely reached his ears. He pocketed the little book, knowing instinctively that it was far, far more than simple blank paper.
Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight.