Entry tags:

length: one shot, pair: lucius/remus, pair: lucius/sirius, pair: narcissa/lily, pair: severus/sirius, rating: r, type: fest fic

Fic: The Hand We're Dealt
Title: The Hand We're Dealt
Author: nishizono
Pairing: Lucius/Remus, Narcissa/Lily, Severus/Sirius, Lucius/Sirius
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2500
Warnings: BDSM, dub-con, violence
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Five kinds of love and four steps to a fall.

Author's Notes: Written for iamisaac for this year's HP Summersmut.

King of Diamonds

(sow the seeds of mistrust)

Remus isn't sure how he ended up here: bloodied and bruised, kneeling on the marble floor of Malfoy Manor's sitting room with his wrists bound and his mouth gagged by an old green and silver tie. Remus isn't sure when he let himself be overpowered by Lucius, who harbors a schoolboy's grudge and a grown man's rage. Remus doesn't know why he's stopped screaming, why he's stopped fighting, and he isn't sure he wants to.

"You threatened something very precious to me." Lucius breathes the words against the back of his neck.

Remus wishes he could speak, because he's more than willing to give up James and Sirius if it means ending this torture. It's a pathetic, cowardly thing to do, but it's not fair that he should have to endure this agony for someone else's childhood prank. But they've been through this before, over and over again, and nothing he's ever had to say has ever made any difference to Lucius.

A fingertip skims down his naked spine, dips below the waistband of his trousers and rips a quiet whine from his throat.

That's when Remus stops thinking.

"Oh puppy," Lucius whispers against his ear, "I know exactly what sort of punishment you need."




Queen of Hearts

(set the stage for murder)

Narcissa Malfoy was created in her husband's image.

Though she has never been his friend, she has become his lover and confidant. When Lucius comes to her rooms, she bows her head and blushes as he slides her nightgown off her shoulders. When Lucius entrusts her with the darkest of his family's secrets, she swears that she will take them to the grave. And she does all of these things with a demure smile and tinkling laughter, befitting of the wife to a powerful man from a powerful family, and the right hand to the right hand of darkness.

But Narcissa Black is no man's concubine.

No, Narcissa Black lures innocence into her bed with quicksilver smiles and corrupt promises. When Lily, the last of her conquests, is writhing in her arms, Narcissa hums a lullaby and licks the warm hollow of her throat. When Lily is arched and pleading beneath her, Narcissa lets the lies drip off her tongue, soft and honey-sweet. When Lily's mouth closes over hers, wet and desperate, Narcissa laughs, quiet and deadly.

And when Lily, trembling in the darkness, whispers, "Kill him for me," Narcissa purrs, "Yes."

Because Narcissa Black is no man's concubine, and neither is Lily Evans.




Jack of Clubs

(say your last good-byes)

Sirius wants a reason.

Just one solid reason to trust Snape, to believe in him the way Albus does. But Sirius and Snape, they've seen too much and they know each other too well for blind faith. So Sirius sits, and he watches, and he catalogues every twist of Snape's hand, every shift of his eyes, and he waits for a sign.

But somehow, sitting becomes pacing and watching becomes touching, and that sign he's waiting for? It never comes.

The best he gets is one night, when he's balls-deep inside his life-long enemy and wondering how he got there. They've been fighting and fucking, and Snape's broken fingernails are clawing at his back and his teeth are leaving bruises on Snape's shoulder. And there's a moment, a split second right before they come, when Sirius lifts his head and thinks he sees something in Snape's eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" Sirius asks later, when they're on their backs and gasping for breath. "Why are you pretending to help us?"

Snape closes his eyes and says, "I don't want anyone else to die, Black."

It's a little too late for that, Sirius thinks, because they're already the walking dead.

Yeah, it's a little too late.




Ace of Spades

(because this is a hell of a way to fall in love)

Dying isn't anything like he'd expected it to be; his wasted, miserable life doesn't flash before his eyes and his dearly departed aren't hovering nearby to welcome him home. There are no warm lights, no slow-motion regrets. It's just him, and a wand, and a tattered old coat, and a split-second between the crack of spellfire and an endless freefall where he thinks, for the second time in his life, 'Shit, I'm going to die.'

~♠~♠~♠~

The first time, he's piss drunk and stupid with grief.

There's no reason for it, no matter how many times he's ranted and raved to Remus or James. And yeah, Sirius really does hate Lucius, really does blame him for taking Regulus away. But when it comes down to it, that morning isn't about righteous fury or divine retribution; no, that morning is about a lonely kid, too scared to be an adult and too world-weary to be a teenager, looking for someone to hurt.

(Or get hurt by, because it's all the same, isn't it?)

Lucius finds him in the orchards, standing just outside the manor's wards with a half-empty bottle in his hands, screaming at the top of his lungs. It's fucking ridiculous, and Sirius knows it; almost as ridiculous as Lucius himself, and the way he comes striding through the trees with his robes fluttering and the apple blossoms drifting down from their branches to catch in his hair.

"Fuck you," Sirius spits as a greeting, right before a spell sends him skidding on his back across the grass.

And Lucius, that self-righteous bastard, walks right up to him and puts a boot on his chest, like he's the already-slain enemy, and asks, "What are you doing here, Black?"

"Regulus is dead," Sirius growls and claws at the foot keeping him pinned to the ground. If only he could just make his hands work right, he'd find his wand and hex Lucius seven ways to Sunday.

But Lucius just smiles down at him, polite like they're having tea, and says, "Yes, that has come to my attention. However-- impaired as your thought processes are at the best of times-- I'm sure even drunk, you can manage a proper explanation for being in my orchard at seven o'clock in the morning?"

That's where it starts to fall apart, because there's not even a trace of regret in the bastard's voice. Sirius, he's broken inside, and Lucius is spending another Saturday morning in the orchards like the whole world isn't shattering around him. It's not fucking fair.

(Life ain't fair, mate.)

So Sirius twists away and lunges, and sometime between "you killed him" and "get a hold of yourself," there's torn robes and a broken bottle. Then he's staring at his own hand as his fingernails rake two bleeding gashes into a pale cheek, and that's when he thinks, 'Oh fuck, I'm going to die.'

But Lucius just grabs his wrists, glares, backs him up against a tree and hisses, "You're testing my patience, Black. I'm not in the mood now, nor will I ever be, to lower myself to brawling with you."

That's an obvious cue for Sirius to shut his mouth, but he's never been very good at that and doesn't have a lot of patience for trying, so he bares his teeth and snarls, "So you'll lower yourself to fucking one brother, but not fighting with the other?"

"Do not," Lucius spits, "presume to compare my relationship with Regulus to my loathing of you."

"Relationship." Sirius laughs, choked and mirthless. "You fucked him, Malfoy, that's all."

Something about Lucius changes-- the set of his shoulders, the curve of his lips-- and he takes a step closer. "I did more than that, Black. I owned him. Regulus was mine, in every way. I had your sweet little brother on his hands and knees for me, pleading and whimpering my name."

"You're disgusting," Sirius growls, shoves ineffectually at Lucius and tries to tear himself away from the hands fisted in the front of his shirt. There's a sick knot coiled in the pit of his stomach, twisting tighter and tighter with every breath he takes.

(Keep breathing.)

"What's wrong?" Lucius purrs. "It's a pretty fantasy when you want to throw it in my face, but it's much more difficult to hear that it's true, isn't it?"

Sirius wants to cover his ears and convince himself he's not listening, but his fingers are curled around the other man's wrists. The bones shift when he tightens his grip, and he's almost satisfied when Lucius draws a hand back and slaps him, hard, across one cheek. Bright, hysterical laughter bubbles up in his throat, chases the spit and blood out of his mouth when he grins and says, "At least I have the satisfaction of knowing you never gave a shit about him; you might have fucked him, but I loved him."

Lucius shoves him harder against the tree and hisses, "You aren't unique in your misery, Black."

And that's just more than Sirius can take, so he lunges forward and bites-- and claws, and kicks, and curses until he's on his back again with Lucius pressing down on him. There's not enough breath in his lungs to scream so he jerks and twists instead, desperate to get his wrists free from the other man's too-tight grip. Glass from the broken bottle is biting into the back of his neck and working its way down the collar of his shirt. Everything is torn and rubbed raw, inside and out, so he mouths 'fuck you' to keep himself from crying.

"If you insist," Lucius whispers.

And Sirius chokes on a laugh because they both know those are just words, just an empty threat-- except they're not, not at all. Lucius is jerking open the front of his trousers and tugging them down his thighs, and for a few seconds, he's too dazed from alcohol and hatred to react. But the hand that wraps around his cock is warm, and his body doesn't care who it belongs to because it's coaxing and teasing, just the way he likes it, which is exactly what makes it unbearable. Panic slices through him and he tries to sit up, or move his hips to throw Lucius off, but somehow the fury and the pleasure get tangled up in each other and he bares his teeth.

"This is the difference," Lucius snarls. "Do you understand? This is the difference between you and your brother."

Sirius laughs again, breathless and bitter. "Then what the fuck does that make you, Malfoy?"

Kissing Lucius is like kissing winter air: so cold it burns. The curve of his tongue drags harsh, desperate sounds from Sirius, who kisses back with an intensity so reckless it scares him. There's no love spared for this, no gentle teasing or quiet sighs; there's the violent press of mouth-to-mouth, teeth and blood and tongues, and when Lucius pulls away, his lips are swollen and wet with spit.

And Sirius-- Sirius is shaking.

(Hang in there, kid.)

Lucius exhales slowly, twists his wrist and pulls his hand away.

A whimper of disappointment slips out before Sirius can stop it, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he can't witness his own shame. When Lucius tugs his trousers further down his legs, he tries to jerk away again, but the fingers around his wrists tighten and he lets out a yelp of pain. Lucius curls a hand around the waistband of his trousers and uses the hold to force his knees up towards his chest. Sirius immediately tries to get his feet planted on the other man's chest to push him away, but his limbs feel heavy and clumsy. The result is that he's bent almost in half with his pants tangled around his boots, his hands pinned to the ground, and Lucius bearing down on him.

"This is the difference," Lucius repeats.

Sirius shudders when something slick and warm slides down the cleft of his arse, and he isn't sure what Lucius is using, but he's grateful for that small bit of consideration, at least. That is, until a finger slides into him and curls, and a shock of pleasure skitters up his spine. Every synapse in his brain seems to be firing conflicting messages: to get away, to get more, to resent the desire that's being forced on him. It's disorienting and nauseating, and he bites his bottom lip to keep his ragged, panting moans at bay.

Lucius sneers. "You're no better than an animal-- a slave to your body's urges."

"And what," Sirius growls, "does that make you?"

There's only a second for him to register that his wrists are free before another slap lands on the still-reddened skin of his cheek. The pain shocks him into stillness, long enough for Lucius to catch him by the throat and squeeze just hard enough to make his breath catch. Sirius shivers and tells himself it's anger that makes his muscles tremble, not fear and certainly not need.

Nothing of what follows is gentle; Lucius only uses two fingers to stretch him, sliding the second in alongside the first before Sirius can even register what's happening. They twist and force him open with a brutality that makes Sirius choke on his own gasping cries. The back of his neck is wet with blood, and he's pushed even harder into the broken glass when Lucius thrusts into him with a single, violent snap of his hips. Sirius is caught so off guard that he can't even scream; his eyes widen with shock and his body twists in response to the stab of pain that slices through him.

The only thing that even resembles tenderness is the soft kiss that Lucius presses to his forehead, too reverent to be anything but blasphemous.

"Give in," Lucius whispers.

(Give up.)

Another thrust and Sirius arches, head tipped back and mouth open to gasp, "Yes."

~♠~♠~♠~

Dying isn't anything like he'd expected it to be. And it isn't like he's never thought about it. Men like him, they can only dream the impossible, and when a man is imprisoned, he dreams of death instead of freedom. But Sirius-- see, Sirius has never really had high hopes for himself, and the best he'd been able to come up with was starvation or maybe, if he was really lucky, a quick execution.

The reality is this: a fall.

There are no slow-motion regrets, no choirs of angels; there's just him, and a wand, and the realization that he's about to die. There's a flash of panic when he realizes he's left his dirty underpants on his bedroom floor, and a moment of clarity in which he wonders if Remus will make it home to find them. And somewhere, behind all of that, there's a little girl with red hair and green eyes brighter than the spellfire lights dancing across his skin. There's another little girl with a golden smile and a silver tongue, spinning 'round and 'round in a pile of autumn leaves. There's Regulus, dancing in the hallway between their bedrooms. There's Snape, smelling of coriander and staring at the night sky. There's Lucius, a paradox of cold eyes and warm hands, with apple blossoms caught in his hair.

Someone told him once that they didn't want anyone else to die, but it's a little too late for that. It might be a little too late for all of them, but that's okay.

Yeah, it's all okay, Sirius thinks, because the reality is this: a blaze of fucking glory.

And it's a hell of a way to fall in love.

(Yeah, it's a hell of a way to fall in love.)