A/N: If you like my writing, please leave a review! It helps boost my confidence and lets me know that my writing isn't totally awful. :)

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling

Narcissa lies on her side, watching as Lucius' chest rises and falls. He is lying on his back, arms flung out on both sides and hair encircling his head like a halo.

How ironic, Narcissa scoffs. He's like an angel, although I suppose the term, Angel of Death, is far more appropriate.

His almost-white eyelashes lie atop his high cheekbones and his aristocratic features are caressed by the strong glow of the moon through their bedroom window. His breathing is slow and he takes deep breaths, however he is not snoring, for what Malfoy in history has ever snored? How common!

He looks so peaceful, so benign—he has always looked his most relaxed when he is sleeping—but Narcissa is not naïve, aware of his darkness, as is every other witch and wizard in the world.

She lets her gaze travel from his pale face down to his left arm and she can see the flicker of the snake's tongue on his Dark Mark. His darkness is what first drew her to him, above his obvious good-looks. She knew he was dangerous and her eldest sister, Bellatrix, had warned her to keep away from him, but being her stubborn self, Narcissa ended up getting what she wanted, and what she wanted was him.

Narcissa has a dark streak herself, hidden so deep within her that Lucius has been the only one to discover it. It didn't take him long, really. He didn't miss the way her pupils dilated with lust and her pulse quickened beneath the palm of his hand when he grasped her wrist a bit too firmly on their first date. He didn't miss her throaty moans when he bit her lip as he kissed her, hard enough to draw blood, or her quick intake of breath when he sharply pulled her hair in order to get her to bare her neck to him at the end of their first date. He certainly didn't miss the way she dug her perfectly manicured nails into his shoulder blades, leaving marks that lasted a week, as he fucked her into the ground in the bushes next to her manor's steps.

There has always been an extremely thin line between pain and pleasure for both Lucius and Narcissa but neither has ever brought it up. They do what comes naturally to them and that just happens to be rough, passionate, animalistic sex (with the occasional love-making when they actually take the time).

Lucius knows what she is and he knows what he is, but he is loathe to say anything to her about it or she will surely deny him sex for a week—she merely needs to admit it to herself. She's already taken the first step; she's already acknowledged that she gets off on the fact that Lucius would kill for her, does kill for her, without batting an eye. Last week they fucked against the wall of a dark alley after he killed a man for shoving Narcissa out of the way.

Narcissa grasps the wrist of Lucius' left arm and brings it to her face, her eyes glaring at the mark branded on his forearm. How dare He mark Lucius. Her Lucius. As if He owns him. Nobody owns Lucius except Narcissa, and she has made that clear. On their wedding night, she took the knife they used to cut their cake and carved a Narcissus flower into the skin above his heart, cauterized the wound with the tip of her wand, and marked him as hers for eternity. She needn't have, though, for Lucius made an Unbreakable Vow at the alter to be forever hers. She rewarded him for his troubles, of course, and how could he ever stay angry with her?

She brings his arm ever closer and flattens her tongue against the skin near the crook of his elbow, her eyes drifting shut as she slowly, ever so slowly, drags her tongue up his forearm and across the mark.

Lucius lets out a long hiss and Narcissa's eyes open to meet his intense, icy gaze. His head is slightly raised, as he's tucked his right arm underneath it, and he watches her, eyes half-lidded with lust. Narcissa smirks and licks the mark again, nipping at the sensitive flesh on his wrist with her pearly front teeth and sending tremors through Lucius' body as a mixture of pleasure and pain shoot straight down his arm. Narcissa's eyes sweep over his body, everything below his pelvis covered by the sheet, and her smirk widens into a Cheshire Cat-like grin as she watches a tent begin to form. She brings her gaze back to his and takes satisfaction in the way his breathing becomes a bit more rapid and his pupils dilate.

Narcissa briefly wonders if He can feel it when she licks, kisses, or bites Lucius' mark, and if so, what does He feel. She shudders at the thought that while He blatantly disapproves of men who give into their human desires, He may share Lucius' pleasure—she has heard Him call her "Lucius' pretty little wife," but she finds these thoughts disturbing and utterly atrocious and she would rather not dwell on them so she returns her attention to her husband.

Lucius has been watching her with a curious expression, obviously trying to read her thoughts through her expressions like he usually does so easily, but this time Narcissa smiles demurely and he knows that she will tell him when she is ready.

She gives the mark a final lick and rolls gracefully so that she is straddling him. She grinds and thrusts her pelvis against Lucius', reveling in the feeling of him growing harder beneath her. He lifts his hands up, allowing her to lace her fingers through his as she leans over and kisses him, their tongues dancing together in each other's' mouths and her white-blonde locks forming a curtain around their faces as they become tangled in a passionate embrace.