also known as kethlenda (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} green_amber) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} greenamberfic,@ 2007-08-12 10:16:00 |
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"A Sister's Mercy," Narcissa/Bellatrix, NC-17
Title: A Sister's Mercy
Author:kethlenda
Characters/Pairing: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Summary:
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Incest, D/s
Originally Written: 12/05
Notes: This was a Christmas gift forsionnain. Beta by starrysummer.
I. Sister
Three hooded figures coming up the walk. Impossible, thinks Narcissa. The wards should have barred them. Unless...
The wards are attuned to the Malfoy and Black blood, set to keep intruders from entering unless there is one among them who is of the proper lineage. Family, then. Three figures. Who? Romy and her no-account Mudblood husband and hoydenish daughter, come to beg her forgiveness, or rather her fortune? Not bloody likely. In an instant she knows who they must be. Bella. Rodolphus. Rabastan. Escaped from prison and on her doorstep.
She opens the door and the January wind whips her thin silk nightrail around her legs. Her hair slaps her face in a hundred tiny places. The shortest of the three figures approaches her. The woman shrugs off her black hood, and Narcissa expects to see her dark mirror, the poisoned rose who hovered like a beloved but bloodthirsty goddess over Narcissa’s younger years.
What she does not expect is what she knows she should have expected: sunken cheeks; matted, tangled hair; bloodshot eyes in deep-shadowed circles. For a moment she thinks that Bella has lost her beauty. But then she smiles. Smiles, and speaks.
“Cissy.” A sibilant whisper that is both name and title.
II. Angel
Bellatrix’s first sight of her sister in fourteen years is a silhouette against a golden doorway. The light filters, diffused, through the diaphanous gown Cissy wears, giving her an unearthly aura.
That light is warmth and comfort, and mercy. Bella is drawn to it as to a flame. As she draws closer, she sees Cissy’s hair lit up in a thousand shades of gold and bronze and milk and honey. She looks like an angel.
Narcissa’s arms are driftwood and Bellatrix a drowning woman lost at sea, and she clings for dear life.
Meanwhile, Cissy holds Bellatrix at arm’s length and gives her only a polite air kiss.
“Bella,” she says. “Come in. I’m sure you remember how the house is laid out. The men can stay in the guest wing. As for you, I am sure you remember where the master bath is. Make use of it. Then come see me in the sitting room. We have much to discuss.”
Bellatrix never thought she would want to bathe again. Bathing means water, and Bellatrix has had enough of water to last her a thousand lifetimes.
The tides at Azkaban have a quiet sort of cruelty. They do not sting so viciously as the whip, but they are more merciless than any length of leather, because they never, never, never end.
But the stones of Azkaban and its relentless waves are cold, and the water that fills Narcissa’s palatial white-marble tub is warm. She slips in, sinking into its womblike comfort, and leans back her head, letting her long heavy hair swirl around her, soft against her shoulders for the first time in fourteen years.
Soap, too, is luxury beyond imagining. She watches the bubbles lofting from the bath with wonder, and feels dirt and pain and years slough away as she revels in the suds. She hears laughter like the effervescence of champagne, and realizes with a shock that it is her own, lost for ages upon ages.
III. Mother
Narcissa is ready an hour later. She has thrown a scarlet robe over her nightgown. She sits in the high-backed armchair, her expression schooled into impassivity.
Bellatrix enters, incongruously clad in pink. It’s one of Narcissa’s things, of course. Bellatrix was always built more lushly than her sister, but now the gown hangs from jutting bones. Her hair, hanging wetly over her shoulders, only serves to accentuate the gauntness of her face.
Bellatrix meets Narcissa’s eye finally, and moves closer. Narcissa forbids with a gesture of her hand. “On your knees, Bella.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
And Bella obeys. It goes to Narcissa’s head like good elf-made wine, heady and sweet. She had not known, not until that instant, whether Bella would yield. She betrays none of that in her expression, however; years of a socialite’s life have left her able to give away nothing with her face.
“Now tell me why, Bella. Why have you come here? Why have you put myself and my family in danger? Do you realize what would happen if we were discovered harboring fugitives from Azkaban?”
“I’m your own flesh and blood, Cissy,” says Bella with a snarl in her voice. “I am your family.”
“You were caught. You endangered us all.” Narcissa rises, her velvet skirts brushing against Bella’s cheek. Bella shudders. Narcissa makes note of that shudder. Starved for touch, is she? Useful.
She paces, her heels making a satisfying, icy click on the stone floor. “You sullied our name, Bella. Do you even know what it was like, seeing our name splattered all over the papers? Black Heiress Imprisoned for Attack on Auror. Humiliating.” She smiles as she takes up a riding crop from a rack on the wall. She runs it up and down between her fingers, testing its weight and balance.
Bellatrix starts to her feet.
“Stay,” says Narcissa, in the same passionless tone of command she would use with one of her bitch hounds.
Bellatrix sinks back to her knees, the tilt of her chin still defiant. “I went to prison, yes. I went to prison for my Lord. But you wouldn’t know what it means to devote your all to a cause, do you? You’re a weather-cock, Cissy, that’s all you’ve ever been…”
Narcissa hits Bellatrix soundly across the buttocks with the crop, and licks her lips at the sound of her sister’s tiny animal cry of pain. “Silence, fool. A Slytherin is adaptable; that is our strength. We can shed our skin at need. Better to don or doff a mask than to die senselessly on the pyre of some mad cause or other. Like you. What are you?” Again the crop meets delicate flesh. “A Gryffindor?”
“I am the Dark Lord’s most loyal…”
“Oh, a Hufflepuff. My mistake.” Narcissa laughs. “What you really are is a fool. You don’t care about anything but your stupid cause.”
“And you don’t care about anything except saving your own skin.”
“Not my skin, you little bitch. My son’s skin. The skin you’ve just put in danger by coming here with a price on your head.”
IV. Queen
Bellatrix has never before seen such steel beneath the china-doll façade of her younger sister. Not angel, but queen, in her regal velvets, with Bellatrix at her feet like the lowliest petitioner. And Bellatrix feels herself unwelcome in this, Narcissa’s realm.
“You would cast me out, then?” she asks, hanging her head, voice breaking. This is her only hope. A hope that Cissy had cruelly allowed her to believe, for just one golden moment. “Your own sister?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” says Narcissa, seizing a hank of Bella’s hair and holding her head fast, forcing Bella to meet her cold blue eyes. “I merely wish you to understand that there will be a price.”
“Anything,” says Bellatrix, ashamed of her own abject behaviour, but bound by desperation and, strangely, by the desire to please her sister. Always, when they were young, Bellatrix was the leader of the two, and little Narcissa always so sweet, so eager to please…
Yet Bella knows that the tables are turned now, that Narcissa is a respected lady and that she, Bella, is nothing but a criminal on the lam, no matter how justified her crimes, and that she is utterly, now, at Cissy’s mercy. Narcissa releases Bella’s hair and lowers herself gracefully into the chair again. She leans forward and does what Bellatrix least expects: she kisses her full on the lips.
Bella is still drowning in the unexpected kiss when she feels something hard slip between her legs, touching places lost so long, awakening. She moans, and presses against the crop and feels her breath catch in her throat as her sister moves it more precisely, rubs its shaft over Bella’s hard little nub, and then just as suddenly draws away like the ebb tide.
“No…” Bella moans, begs.
“No? I think I’m the one who’ll say yes or no, don’t you?” Narcissa smiles a slow feline smile, and parts her red robe to reveal herself to Bellatrix. “Please me, sister.”
Bellatrix leans forward to drink in her sister’s lips once again, then lowers her head to one pink-tipped breast after the other, not daring to look again at her Cissy’s face, afraid she will see only cold impassiveness despite the heat she feels from Cissy’s flesh, the hardness of Cissy’s nipples in Bella’s fingers, between her teeth.
She moves lower; never before has she done what she is about to do. Always, Narcissa served her; always every other woman she has known has served her. Bellatrix is uncertain in the ways of pleasure for the first time in her life as she flicks her tongue to caress Narcissa’s flesh.
“Yes, that’s a good girl,” says Narcissa softly, resting her hand languidly on Bella’s damp head.
Bella feels another wave of desire rising within her, but she dares not presume upon Narcissa’s mercy, and seeks only to please her, clenching her own thighs together as though to find her own pleasure or to stifle it; she does not know which.
Narcissa’s breaths are audible now, and short, and Bellatrix slides two fingers inside her sister’s hot cunt. Bellatrix moves her fingers in and out, slowly but hard, as she continues to lap at Narcissa’s clit, and then Narcissa comes, muscles gripping Bella’s fingers, and Bella sighs and leans her head on her sister’s knee.
V. Mistress
“I suppose you think you’ve earned something?” says Narcissa. “You want something from me, don’t you?”
Bellatrix means to say she wants nothing more from her sister, that Narcissa’s hospitality is all she could ask for, but she is half mad with wanting, and she is nodding before she can open her mouth to say no.
Narcissa smiles, still that icy smile that does not quite reach her eyes, and slips the cool length of the crop, not her hot hands or tongue, between Bella’s thighs. But Bella wants it, oh, how she wants it, and she moves in rhythm with Narcissa’s movements. And when Narcissa presses the shaft of the instrument more firmly against her throbbing clit, Bella breaks, orgasm washing over her like a warm wave. She drowns in the sensation, only catching her breath after long minutes, then looks up wonderingly into Cissy’s eyes.
“That’s the price,” says Narcissa, rising from the chair, her robe falling around her again and veiling her beauty from Bellatrix’s eyes.
“The price is a shag?” says Bella. She cannot resist a smirk, as though it will somehow dilute her utter surrender of a moment before. “You sell your safety cheaply, sister.”
“The price,” says Narcissa over her shoulder as she walks away, “is that you will never, so long as you live under my roof, forget who is mistress here.”
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Bellatrix alone in the half-light of the guttering candles.
Title: A Sister's Mercy
Author:
kethlendaCharacters/Pairing: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Summary:
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Incest, D/s
Originally Written: 12/05
Notes: This was a Christmas gift for
sionnain. Beta by starrysummer.I. Sister
Three hooded figures coming up the walk. Impossible, thinks Narcissa. The wards should have barred them. Unless...
The wards are attuned to the Malfoy and Black blood, set to keep intruders from entering unless there is one among them who is of the proper lineage. Family, then. Three figures. Who? Romy and her no-account Mudblood husband and hoydenish daughter, come to beg her forgiveness, or rather her fortune? Not bloody likely. In an instant she knows who they must be. Bella. Rodolphus. Rabastan. Escaped from prison and on her doorstep.
She opens the door and the January wind whips her thin silk nightrail around her legs. Her hair slaps her face in a hundred tiny places. The shortest of the three figures approaches her. The woman shrugs off her black hood, and Narcissa expects to see her dark mirror, the poisoned rose who hovered like a beloved but bloodthirsty goddess over Narcissa’s younger years.
What she does not expect is what she knows she should have expected: sunken cheeks; matted, tangled hair; bloodshot eyes in deep-shadowed circles. For a moment she thinks that Bella has lost her beauty. But then she smiles. Smiles, and speaks.
“Cissy.” A sibilant whisper that is both name and title.
II. Angel
Bellatrix’s first sight of her sister in fourteen years is a silhouette against a golden doorway. The light filters, diffused, through the diaphanous gown Cissy wears, giving her an unearthly aura.
That light is warmth and comfort, and mercy. Bella is drawn to it as to a flame. As she draws closer, she sees Cissy’s hair lit up in a thousand shades of gold and bronze and milk and honey. She looks like an angel.
Narcissa’s arms are driftwood and Bellatrix a drowning woman lost at sea, and she clings for dear life.
Meanwhile, Cissy holds Bellatrix at arm’s length and gives her only a polite air kiss.
“Bella,” she says. “Come in. I’m sure you remember how the house is laid out. The men can stay in the guest wing. As for you, I am sure you remember where the master bath is. Make use of it. Then come see me in the sitting room. We have much to discuss.”
Bellatrix never thought she would want to bathe again. Bathing means water, and Bellatrix has had enough of water to last her a thousand lifetimes.
The tides at Azkaban have a quiet sort of cruelty. They do not sting so viciously as the whip, but they are more merciless than any length of leather, because they never, never, never end.
But the stones of Azkaban and its relentless waves are cold, and the water that fills Narcissa’s palatial white-marble tub is warm. She slips in, sinking into its womblike comfort, and leans back her head, letting her long heavy hair swirl around her, soft against her shoulders for the first time in fourteen years.
Soap, too, is luxury beyond imagining. She watches the bubbles lofting from the bath with wonder, and feels dirt and pain and years slough away as she revels in the suds. She hears laughter like the effervescence of champagne, and realizes with a shock that it is her own, lost for ages upon ages.
III. Mother
Narcissa is ready an hour later. She has thrown a scarlet robe over her nightgown. She sits in the high-backed armchair, her expression schooled into impassivity.
Bellatrix enters, incongruously clad in pink. It’s one of Narcissa’s things, of course. Bellatrix was always built more lushly than her sister, but now the gown hangs from jutting bones. Her hair, hanging wetly over her shoulders, only serves to accentuate the gauntness of her face.
Bellatrix meets Narcissa’s eye finally, and moves closer. Narcissa forbids with a gesture of her hand. “On your knees, Bella.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
And Bella obeys. It goes to Narcissa’s head like good elf-made wine, heady and sweet. She had not known, not until that instant, whether Bella would yield. She betrays none of that in her expression, however; years of a socialite’s life have left her able to give away nothing with her face.
“Now tell me why, Bella. Why have you come here? Why have you put myself and my family in danger? Do you realize what would happen if we were discovered harboring fugitives from Azkaban?”
“I’m your own flesh and blood, Cissy,” says Bella with a snarl in her voice. “I am your family.”
“You were caught. You endangered us all.” Narcissa rises, her velvet skirts brushing against Bella’s cheek. Bella shudders. Narcissa makes note of that shudder. Starved for touch, is she? Useful.
She paces, her heels making a satisfying, icy click on the stone floor. “You sullied our name, Bella. Do you even know what it was like, seeing our name splattered all over the papers? Black Heiress Imprisoned for Attack on Auror. Humiliating.” She smiles as she takes up a riding crop from a rack on the wall. She runs it up and down between her fingers, testing its weight and balance.
Bellatrix starts to her feet.
“Stay,” says Narcissa, in the same passionless tone of command she would use with one of her bitch hounds.
Bellatrix sinks back to her knees, the tilt of her chin still defiant. “I went to prison, yes. I went to prison for my Lord. But you wouldn’t know what it means to devote your all to a cause, do you? You’re a weather-cock, Cissy, that’s all you’ve ever been…”
Narcissa hits Bellatrix soundly across the buttocks with the crop, and licks her lips at the sound of her sister’s tiny animal cry of pain. “Silence, fool. A Slytherin is adaptable; that is our strength. We can shed our skin at need. Better to don or doff a mask than to die senselessly on the pyre of some mad cause or other. Like you. What are you?” Again the crop meets delicate flesh. “A Gryffindor?”
“I am the Dark Lord’s most loyal…”
“Oh, a Hufflepuff. My mistake.” Narcissa laughs. “What you really are is a fool. You don’t care about anything but your stupid cause.”
“And you don’t care about anything except saving your own skin.”
“Not my skin, you little bitch. My son’s skin. The skin you’ve just put in danger by coming here with a price on your head.”
IV. Queen
Bellatrix has never before seen such steel beneath the china-doll façade of her younger sister. Not angel, but queen, in her regal velvets, with Bellatrix at her feet like the lowliest petitioner. And Bellatrix feels herself unwelcome in this, Narcissa’s realm.
“You would cast me out, then?” she asks, hanging her head, voice breaking. This is her only hope. A hope that Cissy had cruelly allowed her to believe, for just one golden moment. “Your own sister?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” says Narcissa, seizing a hank of Bella’s hair and holding her head fast, forcing Bella to meet her cold blue eyes. “I merely wish you to understand that there will be a price.”
“Anything,” says Bellatrix, ashamed of her own abject behaviour, but bound by desperation and, strangely, by the desire to please her sister. Always, when they were young, Bellatrix was the leader of the two, and little Narcissa always so sweet, so eager to please…
Yet Bella knows that the tables are turned now, that Narcissa is a respected lady and that she, Bella, is nothing but a criminal on the lam, no matter how justified her crimes, and that she is utterly, now, at Cissy’s mercy. Narcissa releases Bella’s hair and lowers herself gracefully into the chair again. She leans forward and does what Bellatrix least expects: she kisses her full on the lips.
Bella is still drowning in the unexpected kiss when she feels something hard slip between her legs, touching places lost so long, awakening. She moans, and presses against the crop and feels her breath catch in her throat as her sister moves it more precisely, rubs its shaft over Bella’s hard little nub, and then just as suddenly draws away like the ebb tide.
“No…” Bella moans, begs.
“No? I think I’m the one who’ll say yes or no, don’t you?” Narcissa smiles a slow feline smile, and parts her red robe to reveal herself to Bellatrix. “Please me, sister.”
Bellatrix leans forward to drink in her sister’s lips once again, then lowers her head to one pink-tipped breast after the other, not daring to look again at her Cissy’s face, afraid she will see only cold impassiveness despite the heat she feels from Cissy’s flesh, the hardness of Cissy’s nipples in Bella’s fingers, between her teeth.
She moves lower; never before has she done what she is about to do. Always, Narcissa served her; always every other woman she has known has served her. Bellatrix is uncertain in the ways of pleasure for the first time in her life as she flicks her tongue to caress Narcissa’s flesh.
“Yes, that’s a good girl,” says Narcissa softly, resting her hand languidly on Bella’s damp head.
Bella feels another wave of desire rising within her, but she dares not presume upon Narcissa’s mercy, and seeks only to please her, clenching her own thighs together as though to find her own pleasure or to stifle it; she does not know which.
Narcissa’s breaths are audible now, and short, and Bellatrix slides two fingers inside her sister’s hot cunt. Bellatrix moves her fingers in and out, slowly but hard, as she continues to lap at Narcissa’s clit, and then Narcissa comes, muscles gripping Bella’s fingers, and Bella sighs and leans her head on her sister’s knee.
V. Mistress
“I suppose you think you’ve earned something?” says Narcissa. “You want something from me, don’t you?”
Bellatrix means to say she wants nothing more from her sister, that Narcissa’s hospitality is all she could ask for, but she is half mad with wanting, and she is nodding before she can open her mouth to say no.
Narcissa smiles, still that icy smile that does not quite reach her eyes, and slips the cool length of the crop, not her hot hands or tongue, between Bella’s thighs. But Bella wants it, oh, how she wants it, and she moves in rhythm with Narcissa’s movements. And when Narcissa presses the shaft of the instrument more firmly against her throbbing clit, Bella breaks, orgasm washing over her like a warm wave. She drowns in the sensation, only catching her breath after long minutes, then looks up wonderingly into Cissy’s eyes.
“That’s the price,” says Narcissa, rising from the chair, her robe falling around her again and veiling her beauty from Bellatrix’s eyes.
“The price is a shag?” says Bella. She cannot resist a smirk, as though it will somehow dilute her utter surrender of a moment before. “You sell your safety cheaply, sister.”
“The price,” says Narcissa over her shoulder as she walks away, “is that you will never, so long as you live under my roof, forget who is mistress here.”
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Bellatrix alone in the half-light of the guttering candles.
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