FIC: Turn Around, Bright Eyes
Title: Turn Around, Bright Eyes
Author: ldymusyc
Pairing: Bellatrix Lestrange/Draco Malfoy
Rating: R
Prompt: #95 - We shut our eyes and turn away.
Warnings: Incest, crossgen, BDSM, minor in sexual situations.
Summary: Narcissa knows what Bellatrix is doing to her son.
Draco is dozing over his breakfast, head bowed. His fringe covers his eyes, but not the grey shadows beneath them. His skin is translucent, the veins showing through on his pale cheeks, leaving a tracery of blue like the finest lace. Narcissa brushes his cheek with her thumb and Draco startles. He jerks back, knocking over his chair. Narcissa freezes, hand outstretched. Draco's chest heaves as he fights for breath. His mouth hangs open when he pants, his lips swollen. He shakes his head and stumbles back, turning from her. Narcissa closes her eyes as he strides out of the room.
Draco's throat is bruised. Above the soft collar of his shirt, there ride four thin lines, pale lavender against his white skin. Narcissa pushes a bit of toast across her plate, soaking up egg yolk, and stares at her son's throat. Four thin lines and when he turns his head she sees the fifth, the dark thumb print. Her fork clatters to her plate. "Mum?" Draco asks. His voice is rough, hoarse, as if he must force the sound out. Narcissa rises in haste and leaves without excuse. She hurries through the corridors of the Manor, tears stinging her eyes.
Draco is limping, one hand on the wall for support. Narcissa sees him gripping the back of the settee, his knuckles white. He lowers into the cushions, his face twisting with a grimace of pain, and he makes a soft hiss. He fidgets, seeking a comfortable position, and he tosses a small pillow to the other end of the settee with a muttered curse. As his arm moves, the sleeve of his heavy robes slips up, and she sees the dark bruise around his wrist. Circling his thin arm, shackling it. Narcissa turns away and bows her head in silence.
Draco's shirt dangles from Narcissa's limp fingers. The cuffs and collar are wilted, marked with the grime of sweat. The crisp white fabric is stained with red, streaks of dried blood running from the yoke to the hem. Narcissa drags the tip of her nail down one line, then two nails, then three. The streaks of blood follow the path of fingers, clawed nails scratching at Draco's back. Narcissa holds the shirt to her nose. Beneath Draco's spiced cologne is the cloying scent of overripe peaches. Narcissa shudders and throws the shirt into the fireplace, walking away as it burns.
Draco is standing in front of the fireplace, shirtless. Narcissa goes still at the open door, holding her breath. He has his back to her and there are clawed lines down his spine, healing over. There are bruises on his shoulders, purple, green, yellow, bruises on top of bruises in layers that tell of weeks. There is a collar around his neck. One sharp clap echoes in the silent room and Draco drops to all fours. He crawls across the carpet, out of view, towards a wicked laugh. He's smiling. Narcissa puts her hand over her mouth and walks away.
Draco's cries echo through the Manor. Narcissa stands in the corridor outside his room, her hand on the door frame. Draco is keening, whimpering, his voice strained and tight. Narcissa digs her nails into the heavy oak when he shouts, when he calls out. She'd expected anguish and pain, but instead she hears ecstasy. He cries out in pleasure, he cries out Bella's name. Narcissa rests her forehead against the door, trembling, as Draco groans, long, deep, and rolling, dark release in the sound. Her sister's laugh floats through the closed door and Narcissa stumbles away, wiping her eyes.
Author: ldymusyc
Pairing: Bellatrix Lestrange/Draco Malfoy
Rating: R
Prompt: #95 - We shut our eyes and turn away.
Warnings: Incest, crossgen, BDSM, minor in sexual situations.
Summary: Narcissa knows what Bellatrix is doing to her son.
Draco is dozing over his breakfast, head bowed. His fringe covers his eyes, but not the grey shadows beneath them. His skin is translucent, the veins showing through on his pale cheeks, leaving a tracery of blue like the finest lace. Narcissa brushes his cheek with her thumb and Draco startles. He jerks back, knocking over his chair. Narcissa freezes, hand outstretched. Draco's chest heaves as he fights for breath. His mouth hangs open when he pants, his lips swollen. He shakes his head and stumbles back, turning from her. Narcissa closes her eyes as he strides out of the room.
Draco's throat is bruised. Above the soft collar of his shirt, there ride four thin lines, pale lavender against his white skin. Narcissa pushes a bit of toast across her plate, soaking up egg yolk, and stares at her son's throat. Four thin lines and when he turns his head she sees the fifth, the dark thumb print. Her fork clatters to her plate. "Mum?" Draco asks. His voice is rough, hoarse, as if he must force the sound out. Narcissa rises in haste and leaves without excuse. She hurries through the corridors of the Manor, tears stinging her eyes.
Draco is limping, one hand on the wall for support. Narcissa sees him gripping the back of the settee, his knuckles white. He lowers into the cushions, his face twisting with a grimace of pain, and he makes a soft hiss. He fidgets, seeking a comfortable position, and he tosses a small pillow to the other end of the settee with a muttered curse. As his arm moves, the sleeve of his heavy robes slips up, and she sees the dark bruise around his wrist. Circling his thin arm, shackling it. Narcissa turns away and bows her head in silence.
Draco's shirt dangles from Narcissa's limp fingers. The cuffs and collar are wilted, marked with the grime of sweat. The crisp white fabric is stained with red, streaks of dried blood running from the yoke to the hem. Narcissa drags the tip of her nail down one line, then two nails, then three. The streaks of blood follow the path of fingers, clawed nails scratching at Draco's back. Narcissa holds the shirt to her nose. Beneath Draco's spiced cologne is the cloying scent of overripe peaches. Narcissa shudders and throws the shirt into the fireplace, walking away as it burns.
Draco is standing in front of the fireplace, shirtless. Narcissa goes still at the open door, holding her breath. He has his back to her and there are clawed lines down his spine, healing over. There are bruises on his shoulders, purple, green, yellow, bruises on top of bruises in layers that tell of weeks. There is a collar around his neck. One sharp clap echoes in the silent room and Draco drops to all fours. He crawls across the carpet, out of view, towards a wicked laugh. He's smiling. Narcissa puts her hand over her mouth and walks away.
Draco's cries echo through the Manor. Narcissa stands in the corridor outside his room, her hand on the door frame. Draco is keening, whimpering, his voice strained and tight. Narcissa digs her nails into the heavy oak when he shouts, when he calls out. She'd expected anguish and pain, but instead she hears ecstasy. He cries out in pleasure, he cries out Bella's name. Narcissa rests her forehead against the door, trembling, as Draco groans, long, deep, and rolling, dark release in the sound. Her sister's laugh floats through the closed door and Narcissa stumbles away, wiping her eyes.