Fic
Hey everyone, here's a little Bella / Draco piece I got inspired to write after watching PoA last week and coming accross the following nugget of information. Hope you enjoy, all comments welcome blah blah...;)
Title: His mother's eyes
Pairing: Bella / Draco (Bella POV)
Sub pairings: Implied Bella / Narcissa, Implied Draco / Other
Warnings: Incest (d'oh), Language, possible non-con.
Rating: I'm going to have to say NC-17 for the language and themes.
Word Count: 1,129
Setting / Premise The weeks between Bella escaping Azkaban and attatcking Harry et al. at the ministry, where she is recuperating at Malfoy Manor. So slightly AU.
Puberty was not being kind to him, you realised. Gone was the small, pouting cherub from the photographs, and in his place was this restless jumble of limbs and hormones. Bitten fingernails. Furtive glances in place of the wide-eyed confidence of childhood. A tendency to bounce on the ball of his foot until his father told him to stop, which happened frequently. All your life you had hated mealtimes at the Manor, and at first they had been no more enjoyable even after fifteen years in Azkaban. Except now the boy made them bearable.
Darling Draco, with his youth decaying in front of you every day. Skinny and loose-hipped like a girl, his whole body seemed to quiver with insolence as he skulked through the Manor. When they first brought him to meet you his ill-disguised feelings had been a tonic; boredom, apathy, curiosity and fear (good) for you, swimming amongst a mass of other, less interesting insecurities. You began to wonder about the boy…man…boy that still dared to show emotion in Lucius’ house, and about the things that might scare him. You wonder how he would kiss. What he would look like naked. What he would think about when he touches himself. Haha, as if it wasn’t easy to guess. Filthy little mudblood. Oh, he likes saying that alright, spitting it out a little too often even for his parents to be comfortable. You imagine him whispering it to himself in the dark as his forearm flexes and those girleen hips tense. The hair, more yellow than platinum these days sticking to his forehead in strands until he brushes it aside with angular fingers and stares sullenly into his pillow.
The fingers transfix you actually. His hands have grown before the rest of him; and now rest on the table by his sides, a cumbersome arrangement of knuckles and muscle, drawn entirely out of rectangles. You realise he’s going to hurt the first girl they stab into because he doesn’t know how not to yet, and as you think about the soreness and the pinching and the dull ache at the back of this faceless slut’s belly you become insanely jealous. You re-cross your legs and hope that he mistakes her stifled gasps of pain for encouragement, and only does it harder.
“Something amusing you Bella? Do share.” Unsmiling grey eyes have met yours across the dinner table. Only you, you self important twat, you think.
“Only your fine company and food, Lucius” you answer, smiling sweetly and raising a glass in a mock toast. For a second neither of you move and you are aware of Draco’s eyes flitting between you both as he hunches over his plate and continues to shovel food down that obscenely delicate throat. Finally his father smirks, but he still looks away first. Awww, you think, wickle wucius doesn’t want to pway wiv me tonight. And sure enough the conversation resumes, back to the Ministry, and some charity benefit or other, and the prophecy, and The Muggle Problem. There is always plenty to say about The Problem.
But your attention is constantly drawn back to the boy, and the way he laughs too quickly at his own jokes. Or the slight note of uncertainty that has crept into his voice when he talks about school, or Quidditch, or his professors. Oh Draco, have you begun to realise the world does not revolve around you? You can almost smell his insecurities, and his confusion that he of all people should have any. But you have felt him tense as you stalk past him in the halls of the Manor, and have nearly laughed out loud. Such flattery is a joy. Clearly it is true: not a year, not a decade, not even a century in Azkaban can harm the strength of the faithful. So you found increasing excuses to brush his waist, his arms, his oh-so-slight shoulders, and every twitch he made reminded you of the day when you would be able to grip and pull at them instead. You wonder if his body is the same lunar landscape his mother’s was at his age, and if it will mar as easily. Does he have the same bleached valleys between his ribs, the same sharp bloodless hipbones and the same shadows of nothingness that pooled around her collarbones? You hope so. You remember how you used to hate your sister for being everything you weren’t - hard where you were malleable, concave where you were convex - and how you used to feel like so much spoiling fruit next to her. But as you continued to swell and darken with age you learned how to make the her pale body a canvas for your budding artistry, and the dust bowl of her belly bloom beautiful with technicolour bruises. Although it has to be said, you don’t need to pinch Draco to know he is already ruinous.
The house elves are clearing the final course now, and you all begin to rise. Draco catches your eye as he is asked to leave, and this time you see it so clearly you are forced to catch your breath. His eyes are wide, his expression as blank as he can manage. He is scared. He is beautiful. But mostly, he is scared. And all for you. Who would’ve thought it? Your decision is made in an instant.
The corridors of the Manor seem longer and darker at night, but you find his quarters without any real difficulty. Everything is as you imagined, or nearly. The handle to his bedroom turns without resistance, his forehead is glistening in the moonlight and he is not asleep. “Auntie Bella” he utters dully. He does not move as you cross the room, except to turn his head as you approach the bed. He is quiet as you sit beside him, and he kisses tipping his head back, showing a soft sort of compliance you would not have expected in a boy. Fortunately not something Lucius will ever witness, you think. It’s exactly the sort of thing that he’d disapprove of. Much like the exaggerated lack of resistance with which he allows you to position his long, angular limbs. Although you like the way he doesn’t protest. You love the way he doesn’t answer back. You adore the way he stretches. You ask him to contemplate what his father would think, were he here, and you lick the tears of his high cheekbones. Most of all you ignore the bruising at the base of his spine and on the inside of his thighs, refusing to let the evidence of over zealous Quidditch practice spoil your fantasies. And you realise that for all he looks like his father, Draco will always have his mother’s eyes.
Title: His mother's eyes
Pairing: Bella / Draco (Bella POV)
Sub pairings: Implied Bella / Narcissa, Implied Draco / Other
Warnings: Incest (d'oh), Language, possible non-con.
Rating: I'm going to have to say NC-17 for the language and themes.
Word Count: 1,129
Setting / Premise The weeks between Bella escaping Azkaban and attatcking Harry et al. at the ministry, where she is recuperating at Malfoy Manor. So slightly AU.
Puberty was not being kind to him, you realised. Gone was the small, pouting cherub from the photographs, and in his place was this restless jumble of limbs and hormones. Bitten fingernails. Furtive glances in place of the wide-eyed confidence of childhood. A tendency to bounce on the ball of his foot until his father told him to stop, which happened frequently. All your life you had hated mealtimes at the Manor, and at first they had been no more enjoyable even after fifteen years in Azkaban. Except now the boy made them bearable.
Darling Draco, with his youth decaying in front of you every day. Skinny and loose-hipped like a girl, his whole body seemed to quiver with insolence as he skulked through the Manor. When they first brought him to meet you his ill-disguised feelings had been a tonic; boredom, apathy, curiosity and fear (good) for you, swimming amongst a mass of other, less interesting insecurities. You began to wonder about the boy…man…boy that still dared to show emotion in Lucius’ house, and about the things that might scare him. You wonder how he would kiss. What he would look like naked. What he would think about when he touches himself. Haha, as if it wasn’t easy to guess. Filthy little mudblood. Oh, he likes saying that alright, spitting it out a little too often even for his parents to be comfortable. You imagine him whispering it to himself in the dark as his forearm flexes and those girleen hips tense. The hair, more yellow than platinum these days sticking to his forehead in strands until he brushes it aside with angular fingers and stares sullenly into his pillow.
The fingers transfix you actually. His hands have grown before the rest of him; and now rest on the table by his sides, a cumbersome arrangement of knuckles and muscle, drawn entirely out of rectangles. You realise he’s going to hurt the first girl they stab into because he doesn’t know how not to yet, and as you think about the soreness and the pinching and the dull ache at the back of this faceless slut’s belly you become insanely jealous. You re-cross your legs and hope that he mistakes her stifled gasps of pain for encouragement, and only does it harder.
“Something amusing you Bella? Do share.” Unsmiling grey eyes have met yours across the dinner table. Only you, you self important twat, you think.
“Only your fine company and food, Lucius” you answer, smiling sweetly and raising a glass in a mock toast. For a second neither of you move and you are aware of Draco’s eyes flitting between you both as he hunches over his plate and continues to shovel food down that obscenely delicate throat. Finally his father smirks, but he still looks away first. Awww, you think, wickle wucius doesn’t want to pway wiv me tonight. And sure enough the conversation resumes, back to the Ministry, and some charity benefit or other, and the prophecy, and The Muggle Problem. There is always plenty to say about The Problem.
But your attention is constantly drawn back to the boy, and the way he laughs too quickly at his own jokes. Or the slight note of uncertainty that has crept into his voice when he talks about school, or Quidditch, or his professors. Oh Draco, have you begun to realise the world does not revolve around you? You can almost smell his insecurities, and his confusion that he of all people should have any. But you have felt him tense as you stalk past him in the halls of the Manor, and have nearly laughed out loud. Such flattery is a joy. Clearly it is true: not a year, not a decade, not even a century in Azkaban can harm the strength of the faithful. So you found increasing excuses to brush his waist, his arms, his oh-so-slight shoulders, and every twitch he made reminded you of the day when you would be able to grip and pull at them instead. You wonder if his body is the same lunar landscape his mother’s was at his age, and if it will mar as easily. Does he have the same bleached valleys between his ribs, the same sharp bloodless hipbones and the same shadows of nothingness that pooled around her collarbones? You hope so. You remember how you used to hate your sister for being everything you weren’t - hard where you were malleable, concave where you were convex - and how you used to feel like so much spoiling fruit next to her. But as you continued to swell and darken with age you learned how to make the her pale body a canvas for your budding artistry, and the dust bowl of her belly bloom beautiful with technicolour bruises. Although it has to be said, you don’t need to pinch Draco to know he is already ruinous.
The house elves are clearing the final course now, and you all begin to rise. Draco catches your eye as he is asked to leave, and this time you see it so clearly you are forced to catch your breath. His eyes are wide, his expression as blank as he can manage. He is scared. He is beautiful. But mostly, he is scared. And all for you. Who would’ve thought it? Your decision is made in an instant.
The corridors of the Manor seem longer and darker at night, but you find his quarters without any real difficulty. Everything is as you imagined, or nearly. The handle to his bedroom turns without resistance, his forehead is glistening in the moonlight and he is not asleep. “Auntie Bella” he utters dully. He does not move as you cross the room, except to turn his head as you approach the bed. He is quiet as you sit beside him, and he kisses tipping his head back, showing a soft sort of compliance you would not have expected in a boy. Fortunately not something Lucius will ever witness, you think. It’s exactly the sort of thing that he’d disapprove of. Much like the exaggerated lack of resistance with which he allows you to position his long, angular limbs. Although you like the way he doesn’t protest. You love the way he doesn’t answer back. You adore the way he stretches. You ask him to contemplate what his father would think, were he here, and you lick the tears of his high cheekbones. Most of all you ignore the bruising at the base of his spine and on the inside of his thighs, refusing to let the evidence of over zealous Quidditch practice spoil your fantasies. And you realise that for all he looks like his father, Draco will always have his mother’s eyes.