FIC: "Virtue" for jateshi
Title: Virtue
Authoress: ???
Recipient's name: jateshi
Characters/Pairings: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3034
Summary: Narcissa has always been a good girl.
Warnings: domination, breathplay, misuse of a corset
Notes: Huge thanks to H. for the beta, particularly considering how much fun she always makes of me for writing Blackcest. ;) Hope you like it, jateshi!
Narcissa has always been a good girl.
It is reactionary in no small part, of course. After Andromeda’s defection, each of the remaining Black sisters had her own way of coping. Bellatrix exploded, the fire of her nature stirred up into a blazing supernova. For years, she has obeyed every impulse, accumulating power, collecting beaux, shocking their set with her wanton behaviour but somehow escaping ignominy for it. Cygnus is proud of her. No doubt he knows of her lascivious exploits, but they never seem to matter. He is equally aware that she only toys with wizards of the appropriate class, that she has never gotten herself in so much trouble as to bring a bastard to the Black name, and when the appropriate time came, she married where she was told. Those are the truly important things. Cygnus often says that Bellatrix has her priorities in the proper order, that she has the right way of it. And so he is proud.
Narcissa has gone the other way. Knowing she will never be able to match Bellatrix in her father’s esteem, Narcissa has chosen instead to meet her mother’s expectations: well-behaved, a demure debutante, icy perfection. She has been a marble statue on a pedestal, admired and courted at a distance. She has not fallen into beds as Bellatrix has - though the way she hears the tales, in Bella’s case it has been less often beds and more often walls and tables - she has permitted kisses only when assured of a man’s good intent, and even her husband-to-be has been allowed no special liberties. Her mother is proud of her, proud of her restraint, her maiden pride.
Bellatrix laughs over it.
She and Lucius have been lovers, Narcissa knows that. They don't get along, but that's never been a prerequisite for any of Bellatrix's paramours. For months now, since the engagement, Bellatrix has delighted in making saucy comments regarding Lucius' tastes and preferences. As with most of Bellatrix's stories, Narcissa has to wonder how much is exaggeration; not that Bellatrix is given to spinning falsehoods, but since even her truths dance on the very brink of believability, her fiction, Narcissa reasons, is likely to be that much more in the realm of the fantastical.
The night before her wedding, Narcissa is expecting many more ribald remarks. Bellatrix sits by, smirking, as a red-cheeked Druella gives her youngest daughter "the Talk". Entirely unnecessary, of course. Narcissa has spent the past five years listening, with disdain covering her envy, to Bella's tales of intrigue. Listening to her mother, she actually feels a touch of gratitude for Bellatrix's willingness to share her experiences; trying to follow Druella's vague instructions would probably be confusing and problematic.
When Druella leaves, Bellatrix remains, and Narcissa graces her with a dry look. "Intending to give me your version of the matter, Bella?" she asks.
"No," Bella replies, quite simply. "You'll be finding out soon enough." One of Narcissa's pale eyebrows arches, but she does not press the point. No need to; Bella isn't really finished, and Narcissa knows that. "I don't know how you've managed it, waiting so long, though I'm sure it will please him, the idea of virgin territory." Another pause; Narcissa has spent enough years being baited by Bellatrix to know when not to rise to it, and when not to try to avoid her or change the subject. "Are you scared?"
There is some measure of genuine concern in her voice, and that catches Narcissa’s attention. "What?"
"I asked, are you scared?"
Narcissa tightens a bit, turning to the window. "Were you?" she counters.
A hearty laugh rings to the vaulted ceiling. "Have I ever been of anything?"
"I suppose not."
"I didn't have time to get anxious about it, anyway. It came up upon me very quickly." It occurs to Narcissa then that she has never heard, with all the stories, about Bellatrix's first time. She can't even swear she knows who took her older sister's virginity. Bellatrix feels the question -- a sister's intuition, or perhaps she's been pressing into Narcissa's mind again -- and smiles. "Yes, it was Rodolphus," she states. "Sixth year. Bloody bastard was so proud of himself for it, too. But you didn't answer my question."
Narcissa frowns. The more skilled Bellatrix becomes at Legilimency, the harder it becomes to conceal anything from her. At least her thoughts used to be private, even if Bellatrix somehow always knew everything she did. "No, I didn't."
"You are, aren't you? Nervous." Bella snorts heavily. "Fancy, a Black making such a blushing bride. You're the first in at least a century, I'm sure, if even half the stories Aunt Lucretia tells are true."
"It isn't fear," Narcissa objects. "It's just-" But she doesn't know, can't say, precisely. Having spent so much of her life playing the ice maiden, she isn't sure how to make the transition to a wife, a balm in bed, someone with sensuality and desire. She knows she wants to, though. Part of her has always been jealous of Bellatrix for her sport, and now that it will be sanctioned, Narcissa wants a part of it.
She realises too late she has not finished her sentence, and finds Bellatrix's keen gaze upon her. She wonders if her sister has been picking at her mind, trying to extract details of thought, or if she can merely intuit Narcissa’s troubles. Not for the first or last time, she wishes she'd had enough sense to take up Occlumency.
Bellatrix stands, crossing the room to Narcissa. "He won't be gentle," she says, flatly. "He isn't used to such courtesies. I don't think he'll be brutal with you, but he won't be taking great care for your sensibilities." Her hands fall on Narcissa's shoulders, more lightly than Narcissa would have expected, and only then does Narcissa realise how her pale arms are shaking. Bellatrix always inspires this sort of combined fear and intrigue. "I'd be lying if I led you to believe he's a very considerate lover. Selfish, really. If you're brittle, you'll break. Be soft and yielding, and it will go much easier."
"I-" Narcissa can not tear her gaze from Bellatrix's face. It is strange, to see her without a mocking smile on those crimson lips.
One of Bellatrix's hands drifts up to Narcissa's neck, drifting lightly over her skin. Narcissa can feel tiny hairs pricking up in the wake of Bella's fingers. "Careful he doesn't shatter you, my dear," she says, and there's a purr to her voice that frightens Narcissa a little. It's the ambrosial tone she uses in her dalliances, when she wants precisely one thing from a man.
Narcissa shivers, feeling it first in her stomach, then rippling outwards. "Bella..." she whispers. But if there was any sentence to follow, she loses it; Bellatrix's fingers slide back, threading between the silk-soft locks of flaxen hair and cupping the back of her head. She tightens her grip, just slightly, just enough to make Narcissa's chin tilt up.
Bellatrix bends closer, until her lips hover just above Narcissa's neck, her breath warm on Narcissa's skin. After what seems an eternity, they move, agonizingly slowly, tracing the length of Narcissa's jawline. Narcissa feels something inside her weaken, some great yawning chasm that aches for fulfillment.
Bellatrix's lips are above her own, and in a moment of fitful weakness, Narcissa feels herself lean forward. But Bellatrix draws back, just slightly enough to maintain the same immeasurably small distance between them.
"A blushing bride," Bellatrix murmurs, turning the notion over again in her mind. "Fancy that."
When she straightens suddenly, Narcissa releases a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. Then Bellatrix turns on her heel and exits the room without another word, leaving Narcissa alone with her confusion.
~~
Everyone around her is flurried and excited, and seem to be indicating that she should feel the same way. Narcissa, however, is finding it difficult to muster up the expected anticipation. 'After so many years of pretending I don't have emotions,' she thinks, setting out the jewelry to be put on later, 'did I actually manage to do away with them entirely?' She isn't sure whether or not the thought displeases her. 'Would I miss them, if I had?'
The one thing she definitely still feels is a little knot of nervousness that's settled somewhere around her middle.
She knows she can handle the wedding, and the party afterwards. There's nothing to that. That is only being the same doll she has been all her life, a mannequin at someone else's control. Walk with tiny steps, smile the appropriate amount, blush only faintly. Ordered instructions, the decorum so brightly emblazoned on her soul, which she could no more ignore than stop breathing.
She knows she will be an ideal wife during the day. It's being a wife at night that still concerns her. During the day, she can manage a household, arrange flowers, set up meetings, hold teas and luncheons and parties. During the day, she knows she will be perfect, flawless, irreproachable.
But during the night...
She frowns inwardly. 'Damn you, Bella, putting all those notions in my head about his tastes... if he's used to someone like you, I don't know how I'll be anything but a disappointment.'
With the appointed hour drawing near, Druella helps her youngest daughter to dress. She is barely in her undergarments, not fully laced into her corset, when the door opens abruptly, with the sort of barely-restrained force only one person can quite manage.
"Mother, I think you'd best go downstairs immediately," Bellatrix says, clearly false worry etched on her features. Narcissa sees the ploy, though she can't imagine the reason; Druella has never been clever enough to see through Bella's falsehoods. "The house elves are in such a fit. One of them's saying something about lemon custards, and another's having trouble with what's meant to be done with the icing, and the ones set to cleaning just aren't getting their jobs done properly."
Druella blinks vapidly. "Can't you handle it?"
Displaying her usual impatience with her mother's somewhat dim wit, Bellatrix snorts inelegantly. "Have you gone daft? I've no more idea what to do with lemon custards than they do. And they're your bloody house elves, anyway." They were Bellatrix's, too, only a year earlier, but she seems inclined to overlook that fact. "They barely listen to me on simple instructions, so I don't see why you should expect them to behave for anything complicated. I don't know what the hell to do with them."
Druella frowns, though Narcissa isn't sure if it's at the situation or just Bellatrix's language. "All right. I'll see if I can sort it out. Help your sister."
Bellatrix lets her mother brush past, but as soon as she is in the hallway, Bellatrix's demeanor visibly changes, the air of haughty inconvenience darkening into angry disapproval. "No," she says, shutting the door behind her with a decisive slam. She stalks towards Narcissa, and heat fairly simmers on her form, nearly crackling between her raven curls; this is the Bellatrix Narcissa is far more used to seeing, at once more comfortable and entirely more terrifying than the subdued stranger of the night before. "No. You're not going so fair and untouched to your husband." She stalks the length of the room to her sister, and Narcissa realizes she has nowhere to dart to evade. "It's absolutely unheard of. No Black reaches the bridal bed all-unknowing." Half-mocking delight twists Bellatrix's lips as her hand catches Narcissa's chin. "And certainly not my own baby sister."
Narcissa should've known better, should have expected Bella's restraint of the night before to explode dangerously. Bellatrix is not, has never been, a creature of restraint; Bellatrix indulges every whim, every desire. Narcissa is subdued; Narcissa keeps every emotion in check.
Perhaps this is why it takes her a moment to react when Bellatrix's seizing grip draws her closer, when Bellatrix's lips descend to hers with possessing force. Yet even when the shock of it registers, her instinct is for passivity, to let Bella have her way, to neither encourage nor fight.
But it is difficult -- impossible, she soon found -- to remain impassive with Bellatrix's hands exploring her body. Suddenly she understands how Bella has ensnared all those men, why her legions of paramours fight for her privileges.
Subtly, she responds, letting her lips fall apart to admit her sister's probing tongue, letting her own flick shyly in response. Her arms fall around Bellatrix, far too easily. Narcissa has always thought herself the one person immune to Bella's tide of emotion, the one who has never been swept up in her tempestuous currents; this primal force, however, is too great to be resisted.
She can feel Bellatrix's smile, curling against her mouth, and feels her hand playing around the front of her partially-laced corset. Her thumb slides between skin and fabric, caressing the soft white curve, circling the nipple, already hardened into a peak. Narcissa tries to assure herself it's just from the chill in the air. Of course, it's just the chill in the air.
Bellatrix's hand leaves her breast after a moment's stimulation, sliding downwards, teasing the strip of bare skin between Narcissa's corset and her white silk undergarments. "Bella..." Narcissa breathes, but her voice hitches in her throat. Bellatrix's eyes dart up to meet hers, a subtle challenge. Narcissa doesn't need Legilimency to read her thoughts: 'Say no. Tell me to stop.' But she finds herself unable to respond to the dare.
When Bellatrix peels the fabric from her hips, Narcissa forces herself not to shiver. When Bella's hand slides between her legs, she can't help it.
Under Bella's ministrations, Narcissa feels herself aching, burning for more contact, more heat, more friction. She hears Bellatrix chuckle in her low way. "Not frigid after all, Cissy," she drawls, fingers slickened by the proof of Narcissa's desire.
Narcissa wants to laugh, but a gasp provoked by Bellatrix stroking her thumb over her clitoris cuts her off. "Well," she breathes, "I am a Black." Letting her eyes flutter closed, she pauses, trying not to be dizzied by the tumultuous sensations. Somehow, Bella's other hand has stolen around to her back, "For another two hours, anyway."
Narcissa feels a sudden, violent jerk, and realises that Bellatrix has seized hold of her corset strings and given them a fierce yank. "No," she declares, firmly. "A Black first, and forever." Bellatrix's nimble fingers begin cinching together the laces of Narcissa's corset, one link at a time, pulling it tighter even as her other hand works more urgently between Narcissa's legs. "You don't forget that, Narcissa," she growls. "You never forget that."
Narcissa's fingernails bite into Bellatrix's shoulders. "Please, Bella," she gasps, "I can't breathe!"
Dark laughter ripples over her shoulder, and Bellatrix's fingers tighten further, pulling the steel bones of the corset into a narrower pinch around Narcissa's ribs. She gasps for air, clawing desperately at her sister's back, and at the same time feels the pulsating warmth burning even hotter within her. She presses her sex more firmly against Bellatrix's hand, rocking herself rhythmically into Bellatrix's circling, teasing thumb. "Please!" she begs again, feeling the lack of oxygen burning her lungs and blurring her vision.
"Please what, Cissy?" she whispers, tracing her tongue over Narcissa's earlobe.
Whimpering slightly, Narcissa struggles to gain enough air to form an answer. "Please..." she rasps, "let me... let me come..." The vulgarity would wrinkle her nose if she weren't so far gone, but the almost lazy way Bellatrix is tracing her thumb around her clit is about to madden her. She can feel her pulse thrumming in her temples, straining in her throat, and for one half-terrified moment, thinks that Bellatrix will let her pass out.
And then, in the blink before oblivion, everything explodes. A thrilling lightning bolt sizzles through her body as every muscle seizes and tremors, ecstasy rippling through every nerve.
Quickly, Bellatrix releases the strings and deftly pulls the lacing loose enough to let Narcissa breath. The rush of blood and air returning to their proper places dizzies her further, and she collapses weakly against her sister, relying on Bellatrix to keep her upright.
When she regains enough of her senses to find her voice, she drags her head up, looking into those self-satisfied obsidian eyes. "Bella... I..."
"You remember that," Bellatrix says, her voice deep and serious. Dumbly, Narcissa nods, half-hypnotised by Bella's powerful gaze, half-drugged with satiation, and far too enthralled to argue.
By the time their mother returns, Bellatrix has Narcissa entirely into her pristine wedding gown, a confection of white silk and Spanish lace, and is attending to her hair. Narcissa is doing her best not to blush, and reflecting that she's never had cause to try to keep her cheeks maiden-pale before. Fortunately, Druella remains as oblivious as ever, remarking only how glad she is that Bellatrix brought the troubles with the house elves to her attention, and moving to start threading snowy ribbons into Narcissa's hair.
The aisle doesn't seem as long as it perhaps ought. Cygnus stands in his fashionable ebony robes, ready to walk her to Lucius -- the first man to own her passing her off to the last who will. Narcissa doesn't need mirrors to know she looks the perfect doll everyone expects her to be: priceless gown, porcelain features, fixed poise.
Halfway though the walk to the altar, a thought startles her, though it doesn't break her even pace or mar the glazed perfection of her face: 'Am I a virgin or not?' She forces her eyes not to flicker at Bellatrix, standing in the matron of honour's position in her sapphire gown, but the unfamiliar chill of uncertainty trickles down her vertebrae. She would swear she can feel Bellatrix smirking, Bellatrix knowing the confusion she's planted.
A bride ought to be looking forward to her wedding night, ought to be thinking of her soon-to-be husband. Certainly she should not be consumed with thoughts of her own sister, wondering if she will ever be afforded the opportunity to fully explore what has so unexpectedly awakened within her.
'Bellatrix, what have you done to me?'
Authoress: ???
Recipient's name: jateshi
Characters/Pairings: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3034
Summary: Narcissa has always been a good girl.
Warnings: domination, breathplay, misuse of a corset
Notes: Huge thanks to H. for the beta, particularly considering how much fun she always makes of me for writing Blackcest. ;) Hope you like it, jateshi!
Narcissa has always been a good girl.
It is reactionary in no small part, of course. After Andromeda’s defection, each of the remaining Black sisters had her own way of coping. Bellatrix exploded, the fire of her nature stirred up into a blazing supernova. For years, she has obeyed every impulse, accumulating power, collecting beaux, shocking their set with her wanton behaviour but somehow escaping ignominy for it. Cygnus is proud of her. No doubt he knows of her lascivious exploits, but they never seem to matter. He is equally aware that she only toys with wizards of the appropriate class, that she has never gotten herself in so much trouble as to bring a bastard to the Black name, and when the appropriate time came, she married where she was told. Those are the truly important things. Cygnus often says that Bellatrix has her priorities in the proper order, that she has the right way of it. And so he is proud.
Narcissa has gone the other way. Knowing she will never be able to match Bellatrix in her father’s esteem, Narcissa has chosen instead to meet her mother’s expectations: well-behaved, a demure debutante, icy perfection. She has been a marble statue on a pedestal, admired and courted at a distance. She has not fallen into beds as Bellatrix has - though the way she hears the tales, in Bella’s case it has been less often beds and more often walls and tables - she has permitted kisses only when assured of a man’s good intent, and even her husband-to-be has been allowed no special liberties. Her mother is proud of her, proud of her restraint, her maiden pride.
Bellatrix laughs over it.
She and Lucius have been lovers, Narcissa knows that. They don't get along, but that's never been a prerequisite for any of Bellatrix's paramours. For months now, since the engagement, Bellatrix has delighted in making saucy comments regarding Lucius' tastes and preferences. As with most of Bellatrix's stories, Narcissa has to wonder how much is exaggeration; not that Bellatrix is given to spinning falsehoods, but since even her truths dance on the very brink of believability, her fiction, Narcissa reasons, is likely to be that much more in the realm of the fantastical.
The night before her wedding, Narcissa is expecting many more ribald remarks. Bellatrix sits by, smirking, as a red-cheeked Druella gives her youngest daughter "the Talk". Entirely unnecessary, of course. Narcissa has spent the past five years listening, with disdain covering her envy, to Bella's tales of intrigue. Listening to her mother, she actually feels a touch of gratitude for Bellatrix's willingness to share her experiences; trying to follow Druella's vague instructions would probably be confusing and problematic.
When Druella leaves, Bellatrix remains, and Narcissa graces her with a dry look. "Intending to give me your version of the matter, Bella?" she asks.
"No," Bella replies, quite simply. "You'll be finding out soon enough." One of Narcissa's pale eyebrows arches, but she does not press the point. No need to; Bella isn't really finished, and Narcissa knows that. "I don't know how you've managed it, waiting so long, though I'm sure it will please him, the idea of virgin territory." Another pause; Narcissa has spent enough years being baited by Bellatrix to know when not to rise to it, and when not to try to avoid her or change the subject. "Are you scared?"
There is some measure of genuine concern in her voice, and that catches Narcissa’s attention. "What?"
"I asked, are you scared?"
Narcissa tightens a bit, turning to the window. "Were you?" she counters.
A hearty laugh rings to the vaulted ceiling. "Have I ever been of anything?"
"I suppose not."
"I didn't have time to get anxious about it, anyway. It came up upon me very quickly." It occurs to Narcissa then that she has never heard, with all the stories, about Bellatrix's first time. She can't even swear she knows who took her older sister's virginity. Bellatrix feels the question -- a sister's intuition, or perhaps she's been pressing into Narcissa's mind again -- and smiles. "Yes, it was Rodolphus," she states. "Sixth year. Bloody bastard was so proud of himself for it, too. But you didn't answer my question."
Narcissa frowns. The more skilled Bellatrix becomes at Legilimency, the harder it becomes to conceal anything from her. At least her thoughts used to be private, even if Bellatrix somehow always knew everything she did. "No, I didn't."
"You are, aren't you? Nervous." Bella snorts heavily. "Fancy, a Black making such a blushing bride. You're the first in at least a century, I'm sure, if even half the stories Aunt Lucretia tells are true."
"It isn't fear," Narcissa objects. "It's just-" But she doesn't know, can't say, precisely. Having spent so much of her life playing the ice maiden, she isn't sure how to make the transition to a wife, a balm in bed, someone with sensuality and desire. She knows she wants to, though. Part of her has always been jealous of Bellatrix for her sport, and now that it will be sanctioned, Narcissa wants a part of it.
She realises too late she has not finished her sentence, and finds Bellatrix's keen gaze upon her. She wonders if her sister has been picking at her mind, trying to extract details of thought, or if she can merely intuit Narcissa’s troubles. Not for the first or last time, she wishes she'd had enough sense to take up Occlumency.
Bellatrix stands, crossing the room to Narcissa. "He won't be gentle," she says, flatly. "He isn't used to such courtesies. I don't think he'll be brutal with you, but he won't be taking great care for your sensibilities." Her hands fall on Narcissa's shoulders, more lightly than Narcissa would have expected, and only then does Narcissa realise how her pale arms are shaking. Bellatrix always inspires this sort of combined fear and intrigue. "I'd be lying if I led you to believe he's a very considerate lover. Selfish, really. If you're brittle, you'll break. Be soft and yielding, and it will go much easier."
"I-" Narcissa can not tear her gaze from Bellatrix's face. It is strange, to see her without a mocking smile on those crimson lips.
One of Bellatrix's hands drifts up to Narcissa's neck, drifting lightly over her skin. Narcissa can feel tiny hairs pricking up in the wake of Bella's fingers. "Careful he doesn't shatter you, my dear," she says, and there's a purr to her voice that frightens Narcissa a little. It's the ambrosial tone she uses in her dalliances, when she wants precisely one thing from a man.
Narcissa shivers, feeling it first in her stomach, then rippling outwards. "Bella..." she whispers. But if there was any sentence to follow, she loses it; Bellatrix's fingers slide back, threading between the silk-soft locks of flaxen hair and cupping the back of her head. She tightens her grip, just slightly, just enough to make Narcissa's chin tilt up.
Bellatrix bends closer, until her lips hover just above Narcissa's neck, her breath warm on Narcissa's skin. After what seems an eternity, they move, agonizingly slowly, tracing the length of Narcissa's jawline. Narcissa feels something inside her weaken, some great yawning chasm that aches for fulfillment.
Bellatrix's lips are above her own, and in a moment of fitful weakness, Narcissa feels herself lean forward. But Bellatrix draws back, just slightly enough to maintain the same immeasurably small distance between them.
"A blushing bride," Bellatrix murmurs, turning the notion over again in her mind. "Fancy that."
When she straightens suddenly, Narcissa releases a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. Then Bellatrix turns on her heel and exits the room without another word, leaving Narcissa alone with her confusion.
~~
Everyone around her is flurried and excited, and seem to be indicating that she should feel the same way. Narcissa, however, is finding it difficult to muster up the expected anticipation. 'After so many years of pretending I don't have emotions,' she thinks, setting out the jewelry to be put on later, 'did I actually manage to do away with them entirely?' She isn't sure whether or not the thought displeases her. 'Would I miss them, if I had?'
The one thing she definitely still feels is a little knot of nervousness that's settled somewhere around her middle.
She knows she can handle the wedding, and the party afterwards. There's nothing to that. That is only being the same doll she has been all her life, a mannequin at someone else's control. Walk with tiny steps, smile the appropriate amount, blush only faintly. Ordered instructions, the decorum so brightly emblazoned on her soul, which she could no more ignore than stop breathing.
She knows she will be an ideal wife during the day. It's being a wife at night that still concerns her. During the day, she can manage a household, arrange flowers, set up meetings, hold teas and luncheons and parties. During the day, she knows she will be perfect, flawless, irreproachable.
But during the night...
She frowns inwardly. 'Damn you, Bella, putting all those notions in my head about his tastes... if he's used to someone like you, I don't know how I'll be anything but a disappointment.'
With the appointed hour drawing near, Druella helps her youngest daughter to dress. She is barely in her undergarments, not fully laced into her corset, when the door opens abruptly, with the sort of barely-restrained force only one person can quite manage.
"Mother, I think you'd best go downstairs immediately," Bellatrix says, clearly false worry etched on her features. Narcissa sees the ploy, though she can't imagine the reason; Druella has never been clever enough to see through Bella's falsehoods. "The house elves are in such a fit. One of them's saying something about lemon custards, and another's having trouble with what's meant to be done with the icing, and the ones set to cleaning just aren't getting their jobs done properly."
Druella blinks vapidly. "Can't you handle it?"
Displaying her usual impatience with her mother's somewhat dim wit, Bellatrix snorts inelegantly. "Have you gone daft? I've no more idea what to do with lemon custards than they do. And they're your bloody house elves, anyway." They were Bellatrix's, too, only a year earlier, but she seems inclined to overlook that fact. "They barely listen to me on simple instructions, so I don't see why you should expect them to behave for anything complicated. I don't know what the hell to do with them."
Druella frowns, though Narcissa isn't sure if it's at the situation or just Bellatrix's language. "All right. I'll see if I can sort it out. Help your sister."
Bellatrix lets her mother brush past, but as soon as she is in the hallway, Bellatrix's demeanor visibly changes, the air of haughty inconvenience darkening into angry disapproval. "No," she says, shutting the door behind her with a decisive slam. She stalks towards Narcissa, and heat fairly simmers on her form, nearly crackling between her raven curls; this is the Bellatrix Narcissa is far more used to seeing, at once more comfortable and entirely more terrifying than the subdued stranger of the night before. "No. You're not going so fair and untouched to your husband." She stalks the length of the room to her sister, and Narcissa realizes she has nowhere to dart to evade. "It's absolutely unheard of. No Black reaches the bridal bed all-unknowing." Half-mocking delight twists Bellatrix's lips as her hand catches Narcissa's chin. "And certainly not my own baby sister."
Narcissa should've known better, should have expected Bella's restraint of the night before to explode dangerously. Bellatrix is not, has never been, a creature of restraint; Bellatrix indulges every whim, every desire. Narcissa is subdued; Narcissa keeps every emotion in check.
Perhaps this is why it takes her a moment to react when Bellatrix's seizing grip draws her closer, when Bellatrix's lips descend to hers with possessing force. Yet even when the shock of it registers, her instinct is for passivity, to let Bella have her way, to neither encourage nor fight.
But it is difficult -- impossible, she soon found -- to remain impassive with Bellatrix's hands exploring her body. Suddenly she understands how Bella has ensnared all those men, why her legions of paramours fight for her privileges.
Subtly, she responds, letting her lips fall apart to admit her sister's probing tongue, letting her own flick shyly in response. Her arms fall around Bellatrix, far too easily. Narcissa has always thought herself the one person immune to Bella's tide of emotion, the one who has never been swept up in her tempestuous currents; this primal force, however, is too great to be resisted.
She can feel Bellatrix's smile, curling against her mouth, and feels her hand playing around the front of her partially-laced corset. Her thumb slides between skin and fabric, caressing the soft white curve, circling the nipple, already hardened into a peak. Narcissa tries to assure herself it's just from the chill in the air. Of course, it's just the chill in the air.
Bellatrix's hand leaves her breast after a moment's stimulation, sliding downwards, teasing the strip of bare skin between Narcissa's corset and her white silk undergarments. "Bella..." Narcissa breathes, but her voice hitches in her throat. Bellatrix's eyes dart up to meet hers, a subtle challenge. Narcissa doesn't need Legilimency to read her thoughts: 'Say no. Tell me to stop.' But she finds herself unable to respond to the dare.
When Bellatrix peels the fabric from her hips, Narcissa forces herself not to shiver. When Bella's hand slides between her legs, she can't help it.
Under Bella's ministrations, Narcissa feels herself aching, burning for more contact, more heat, more friction. She hears Bellatrix chuckle in her low way. "Not frigid after all, Cissy," she drawls, fingers slickened by the proof of Narcissa's desire.
Narcissa wants to laugh, but a gasp provoked by Bellatrix stroking her thumb over her clitoris cuts her off. "Well," she breathes, "I am a Black." Letting her eyes flutter closed, she pauses, trying not to be dizzied by the tumultuous sensations. Somehow, Bella's other hand has stolen around to her back, "For another two hours, anyway."
Narcissa feels a sudden, violent jerk, and realises that Bellatrix has seized hold of her corset strings and given them a fierce yank. "No," she declares, firmly. "A Black first, and forever." Bellatrix's nimble fingers begin cinching together the laces of Narcissa's corset, one link at a time, pulling it tighter even as her other hand works more urgently between Narcissa's legs. "You don't forget that, Narcissa," she growls. "You never forget that."
Narcissa's fingernails bite into Bellatrix's shoulders. "Please, Bella," she gasps, "I can't breathe!"
Dark laughter ripples over her shoulder, and Bellatrix's fingers tighten further, pulling the steel bones of the corset into a narrower pinch around Narcissa's ribs. She gasps for air, clawing desperately at her sister's back, and at the same time feels the pulsating warmth burning even hotter within her. She presses her sex more firmly against Bellatrix's hand, rocking herself rhythmically into Bellatrix's circling, teasing thumb. "Please!" she begs again, feeling the lack of oxygen burning her lungs and blurring her vision.
"Please what, Cissy?" she whispers, tracing her tongue over Narcissa's earlobe.
Whimpering slightly, Narcissa struggles to gain enough air to form an answer. "Please..." she rasps, "let me... let me come..." The vulgarity would wrinkle her nose if she weren't so far gone, but the almost lazy way Bellatrix is tracing her thumb around her clit is about to madden her. She can feel her pulse thrumming in her temples, straining in her throat, and for one half-terrified moment, thinks that Bellatrix will let her pass out.
And then, in the blink before oblivion, everything explodes. A thrilling lightning bolt sizzles through her body as every muscle seizes and tremors, ecstasy rippling through every nerve.
Quickly, Bellatrix releases the strings and deftly pulls the lacing loose enough to let Narcissa breath. The rush of blood and air returning to their proper places dizzies her further, and she collapses weakly against her sister, relying on Bellatrix to keep her upright.
When she regains enough of her senses to find her voice, she drags her head up, looking into those self-satisfied obsidian eyes. "Bella... I..."
"You remember that," Bellatrix says, her voice deep and serious. Dumbly, Narcissa nods, half-hypnotised by Bella's powerful gaze, half-drugged with satiation, and far too enthralled to argue.
By the time their mother returns, Bellatrix has Narcissa entirely into her pristine wedding gown, a confection of white silk and Spanish lace, and is attending to her hair. Narcissa is doing her best not to blush, and reflecting that she's never had cause to try to keep her cheeks maiden-pale before. Fortunately, Druella remains as oblivious as ever, remarking only how glad she is that Bellatrix brought the troubles with the house elves to her attention, and moving to start threading snowy ribbons into Narcissa's hair.
The aisle doesn't seem as long as it perhaps ought. Cygnus stands in his fashionable ebony robes, ready to walk her to Lucius -- the first man to own her passing her off to the last who will. Narcissa doesn't need mirrors to know she looks the perfect doll everyone expects her to be: priceless gown, porcelain features, fixed poise.
Halfway though the walk to the altar, a thought startles her, though it doesn't break her even pace or mar the glazed perfection of her face: 'Am I a virgin or not?' She forces her eyes not to flicker at Bellatrix, standing in the matron of honour's position in her sapphire gown, but the unfamiliar chill of uncertainty trickles down her vertebrae. She would swear she can feel Bellatrix smirking, Bellatrix knowing the confusion she's planted.
A bride ought to be looking forward to her wedding night, ought to be thinking of her soon-to-be husband. Certainly she should not be consumed with thoughts of her own sister, wondering if she will ever be afforded the opportunity to fully explore what has so unexpectedly awakened within her.
'Bellatrix, what have you done to me?'