Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Lucius sits by the window, quill in hand. He wears white, white on white against the stark background of the snow-covered moor; the only color in the emerald ink that glistens on the nib. The room is cold; this room is always cold, no matter how high the fire or how many times anti-cold charms have been cast on it. He has allowed the fire to die down, and she can see his breath as he contemplates the words.
He has been cold and distant like this since he returned from Azkaban, and it frightens her more than she cares to admit. Nothing touches him, not damp nor cold nor noise. Things that once sent him into towering fits of rage or day-long sulks are brushed off as unimportant or ignored completely. She kept dinner waiting for half an hour once, letting it get cold, because even his anger would be /something/. He seemed not to notice at all.
His absent presence is maddening, made worse because she'd prayed every hour for him to be returned to her, and now that he is back she finds herself almost wishing he was still gone. She tells herself that he must have undergone terrible things in Azkaban, and once he realizes he's safely home again, he will improve. He needs time. Time heals all wounds, wounds all heels, et cetera.
He has been home nearly a month before he comes to her at last, slipping into her room as the grains of sand fall to mark the third hour of the morning. The door between their bedchambers clicks shut, waking her, and then the familiar sound of his robe hitting the floor, and he is in bed with her, nude and cold. Ordinarily she would protest, but she doesn't want him to pull away from her, and she is more than willing to sacrifice her own comfort for him. His very mouth is cold upon her skin, but his cock is hot as he presses into her, and she wraps her long legs around his hips and rises to meet him. They are silent during their act of love, but afterwards he presses his head into her shoulder and cries like a child, hitching sobs that slide down into her hair as she holds him. I thought I had lost you, he says at last.
I will always wait, she tells him, and he is upon her again, within her, tears still sliding down his cheeks and landing cool on her erect nipples. He is still white and white, stark against the heavy dark curtains of her bed, and the next morning he is quiet and withdrawn again, but she has something to hold onto. He is there, somewhere, and if she only gets to hold him on occasional moonless nights, she could learn to make it enough.
He has been cold and distant like this since he returned from Azkaban, and it frightens her more than she cares to admit. Nothing touches him, not damp nor cold nor noise. Things that once sent him into towering fits of rage or day-long sulks are brushed off as unimportant or ignored completely. She kept dinner waiting for half an hour once, letting it get cold, because even his anger would be /something/. He seemed not to notice at all.
His absent presence is maddening, made worse because she'd prayed every hour for him to be returned to her, and now that he is back she finds herself almost wishing he was still gone. She tells herself that he must have undergone terrible things in Azkaban, and once he realizes he's safely home again, he will improve. He needs time. Time heals all wounds, wounds all heels, et cetera.
He has been home nearly a month before he comes to her at last, slipping into her room as the grains of sand fall to mark the third hour of the morning. The door between their bedchambers clicks shut, waking her, and then the familiar sound of his robe hitting the floor, and he is in bed with her, nude and cold. Ordinarily she would protest, but she doesn't want him to pull away from her, and she is more than willing to sacrifice her own comfort for him. His very mouth is cold upon her skin, but his cock is hot as he presses into her, and she wraps her long legs around his hips and rises to meet him. They are silent during their act of love, but afterwards he presses his head into her shoulder and cries like a child, hitching sobs that slide down into her hair as she holds him. I thought I had lost you, he says at last.
I will always wait, she tells him, and he is upon her again, within her, tears still sliding down his cheeks and landing cool on her erect nipples. He is still white and white, stark against the heavy dark curtains of her bed, and the next morning he is quiet and withdrawn again, but she has something to hold onto. He is there, somewhere, and if she only gets to hold him on occasional moonless nights, she could learn to make it enough.
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