stiletto & rubykate
Title: Truth, Beauty and a Picture of You
Author: Greenie (stiletto)
Pairing: Narcissa/Bellatrix
Challenge: There’s no aphrodisiac like loneliness - The Whitlams, No Aphrodisiac
Magic and portraits hold the House together. In every room a different one hangs - a different person, a different style. The Black family tree is wide and its branches hang down everywhere (and there is an attic full of taken-down pictures, just as there are rows of scorch marks on the tapestries.)
Narcissa fucks her husband in the biggest spare bedroom (they have stolen quietly into this Noble and Most Ancient place; the House cannot stop them and its servants will not, for more rightful owners are dead or as good as.) On the wall, Bellatrix blows silent kisses to her screaming sister.
On Azkab Island, Bellatrix doesn’t scream: She croaks, and scrapes at her dry cunt, and imagines Narcissa imagining her. Orgasm thrills through her, rich with the sin of wanting your own sister. But who else is left in her bramble-thicket mind to want?
Anything more and the Dementors come swooping down - drawn to her happiness (but strangely, not sexual pleasure) stealing away all Bellatrix’s memories of her pampered life before and leaving her only with vulgar need.
Narcissa clings to her husband, writhing on his cock. Bellatrix clings to Narcissa, and thus pleasure, and thus life.
Title: Toujours Pur
Author: rubykate
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Thanks to starrysummer for the great beta job, and melpemone for putting up with my lateness!
Magic and portraits hold the House together. In every room a different one hangs - a different person, a different style. The Black family tree is wide and its branches hang down everywhere (and there is an attic full of taken-down pictures, just as there are rows of scorch marks on the tapestries.)
Narcissa and her husband have stolen quietly into this Noble and Most Ancient place; the House cannot stop them and its servants will not, for more rightful owners are dead or as good as. It will belong to her, now. Her past is her own to claim.
She feels like a ghost, floating through empty, silent corridors, gathering forgotten memories to her. (In there, they had Christmas dinner, next to a huge pine tree that Narcissa and her sisters decorated. The fairy looks like you, Narcissa, Andromeda had said, eyes wide, obviously seeking her sisters’ approval. Narcissa remembers Bella laughing, the sound echoing through her otherwise silent mind.
And in there, the bedroom where Sirius's mother spent hours crying after he had disgraced the family. (Narcissa remembers being brought to visit, to assure her that there was hope for the Black family's younger generations. And again, it's Bella whom Narcissa remembers, her cool, confident laugh. Bellatrix was cold with everyone, of course, except for Narcissa.)
(And in there…)
Lucius treads softly behind her, his eyes scanning the house. He has never been here, of course, to the house of her past, her childhood, her family (Toujours Pur, oh yes). There are no memories to haunt him here. No sounds or images to possess him.
He pauses outside the master bedroom, but Narcissa reaches out to touch him gently on the arm.
"Not there, love. In here."
Not the master bedroom, the cold, lonely room that belonged to her aunt and uncle, but the largest of the spare rooms. The room she shared with her sisters at Christmas and birthdays, where half of her childhood was spent.
As she pushes open the door, Narcissa sees how little has changed. The same paper on the walls, even if it's grimy and stained now; the same thick red carpet now pulling away from the floorboards; the same picture of Bellatrix on the wall, above the bed (Bella, aged fifteen or so, in her school uniform with family pearls around her neck and that smirk across her face).
Narcissa smiles.
*
On Azkaban Island, Bellatrix doesn’t scream: She croaks, and scrapes at her dry cunt, and imagines Narcissa imagining her. Orgasm thrills through her, rich with the sin of wanting her own sister. But who else is left in her bramble-thicket mind to want?
Anything more and the Dementors come swooping down - drawn to her happiness (but strangely, not sexual pleasure) stealing away all Bellatrix’s memories of her pampered life before and leaving her only with vulgar need.
Bellatrix remembers snatches of images - tracing Narcissa's collarbone with her tongue, the taste of her sister's hot, sweet, sticky cunt, whispering to her other sister about what would happen to girls who told tales. Bellatrix remembers her sister, and so remembers life.
This is what Bellatrix can never forget.
*
Narcissa remembers muffling gasps into what is probably this very pillow, writhing with Bellatrix, smothered together underneath the thick quilt. She remembers Andromeda, over in the other bed, sobbing to herself, the sound only spurring her sisters on. Somehow, Andromeda never spilled their secret.
She remembers the first time, she remembers the last. She remembers what it's like to shiver under Bella's tongue, to plunge fingers deep inside the warm wetness of the forbidden. She remembers what it's like to be burning and sticky with her sister under blankets in the summer heat.
This is what Narcissa has had to leave behind.
*
Bella? What if Andromeda hears?
She won’t tell. Don’t hold back, Narcissa.
Bella...
Narcissa.
Are we... allowed to do this?
Toujours Pur, Narcissa.
Oh... Bella...
Don’t hold back.
Bella...
Don’t hold back, Narcissa.
*
Narcissa fucks her husband in the biggest spare bedroom of the empty, memory-filled house. It's different now - almost winter, and the wind blows a scattering of snowflakes in through the broken window.
On the wall, Bellatrix blows silent kisses to her screaming sister. Bella by name, Bella by nature - beautiful Bella with her powerful smile and all-seeing gaze. Narcissa stares at the ancient cracked mirror on the wall and sees herself reflected in it, with Bella’s portrait behind her. As her fingers move over her clit in one final movement, Narcissa catches her breath and the mirror image blurs into a memory of two sisters, twisted together in a mass of whispers and gasps. Narcissa claims her past, and her screams echo through the house.
Narcissa clings to her husband, writhing on his cock. Bellatrix clings to Narcissa, and thus pleasure, and thus life.
Author: Greenie (stiletto)
Pairing: Narcissa/Bellatrix
Challenge: There’s no aphrodisiac like loneliness - The Whitlams, No Aphrodisiac
Magic and portraits hold the House together. In every room a different one hangs - a different person, a different style. The Black family tree is wide and its branches hang down everywhere (and there is an attic full of taken-down pictures, just as there are rows of scorch marks on the tapestries.)
Narcissa fucks her husband in the biggest spare bedroom (they have stolen quietly into this Noble and Most Ancient place; the House cannot stop them and its servants will not, for more rightful owners are dead or as good as.) On the wall, Bellatrix blows silent kisses to her screaming sister.
On Azkab Island, Bellatrix doesn’t scream: She croaks, and scrapes at her dry cunt, and imagines Narcissa imagining her. Orgasm thrills through her, rich with the sin of wanting your own sister. But who else is left in her bramble-thicket mind to want?
Anything more and the Dementors come swooping down - drawn to her happiness (but strangely, not sexual pleasure) stealing away all Bellatrix’s memories of her pampered life before and leaving her only with vulgar need.
Narcissa clings to her husband, writhing on his cock. Bellatrix clings to Narcissa, and thus pleasure, and thus life.
Title: Toujours Pur
Author: rubykate
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Thanks to starrysummer for the great beta job, and melpemone for putting up with my lateness!
Magic and portraits hold the House together. In every room a different one hangs - a different person, a different style. The Black family tree is wide and its branches hang down everywhere (and there is an attic full of taken-down pictures, just as there are rows of scorch marks on the tapestries.)
Narcissa and her husband have stolen quietly into this Noble and Most Ancient place; the House cannot stop them and its servants will not, for more rightful owners are dead or as good as. It will belong to her, now. Her past is her own to claim.
She feels like a ghost, floating through empty, silent corridors, gathering forgotten memories to her. (In there, they had Christmas dinner, next to a huge pine tree that Narcissa and her sisters decorated. The fairy looks like you, Narcissa, Andromeda had said, eyes wide, obviously seeking her sisters’ approval. Narcissa remembers Bella laughing, the sound echoing through her otherwise silent mind.
And in there, the bedroom where Sirius's mother spent hours crying after he had disgraced the family. (Narcissa remembers being brought to visit, to assure her that there was hope for the Black family's younger generations. And again, it's Bella whom Narcissa remembers, her cool, confident laugh. Bellatrix was cold with everyone, of course, except for Narcissa.)
(And in there…)
Lucius treads softly behind her, his eyes scanning the house. He has never been here, of course, to the house of her past, her childhood, her family (Toujours Pur, oh yes). There are no memories to haunt him here. No sounds or images to possess him.
He pauses outside the master bedroom, but Narcissa reaches out to touch him gently on the arm.
"Not there, love. In here."
Not the master bedroom, the cold, lonely room that belonged to her aunt and uncle, but the largest of the spare rooms. The room she shared with her sisters at Christmas and birthdays, where half of her childhood was spent.
As she pushes open the door, Narcissa sees how little has changed. The same paper on the walls, even if it's grimy and stained now; the same thick red carpet now pulling away from the floorboards; the same picture of Bellatrix on the wall, above the bed (Bella, aged fifteen or so, in her school uniform with family pearls around her neck and that smirk across her face).
Narcissa smiles.
*
On Azkaban Island, Bellatrix doesn’t scream: She croaks, and scrapes at her dry cunt, and imagines Narcissa imagining her. Orgasm thrills through her, rich with the sin of wanting her own sister. But who else is left in her bramble-thicket mind to want?
Anything more and the Dementors come swooping down - drawn to her happiness (but strangely, not sexual pleasure) stealing away all Bellatrix’s memories of her pampered life before and leaving her only with vulgar need.
Bellatrix remembers snatches of images - tracing Narcissa's collarbone with her tongue, the taste of her sister's hot, sweet, sticky cunt, whispering to her other sister about what would happen to girls who told tales. Bellatrix remembers her sister, and so remembers life.
This is what Bellatrix can never forget.
*
Narcissa remembers muffling gasps into what is probably this very pillow, writhing with Bellatrix, smothered together underneath the thick quilt. She remembers Andromeda, over in the other bed, sobbing to herself, the sound only spurring her sisters on. Somehow, Andromeda never spilled their secret.
She remembers the first time, she remembers the last. She remembers what it's like to shiver under Bella's tongue, to plunge fingers deep inside the warm wetness of the forbidden. She remembers what it's like to be burning and sticky with her sister under blankets in the summer heat.
This is what Narcissa has had to leave behind.
*
Bella? What if Andromeda hears?
She won’t tell. Don’t hold back, Narcissa.
Bella...
Narcissa.
Are we... allowed to do this?
Toujours Pur, Narcissa.
Oh... Bella...
Don’t hold back.
Bella...
Don’t hold back, Narcissa.
*
Narcissa fucks her husband in the biggest spare bedroom of the empty, memory-filled house. It's different now - almost winter, and the wind blows a scattering of snowflakes in through the broken window.
On the wall, Bellatrix blows silent kisses to her screaming sister. Bella by name, Bella by nature - beautiful Bella with her powerful smile and all-seeing gaze. Narcissa stares at the ancient cracked mirror on the wall and sees herself reflected in it, with Bella’s portrait behind her. As her fingers move over her clit in one final movement, Narcissa catches her breath and the mirror image blurs into a memory of two sisters, twisted together in a mass of whispers and gasps. Narcissa claims her past, and her screams echo through the house.
Narcissa clings to her husband, writhing on his cock. Bellatrix clings to Narcissa, and thus pleasure, and thus life.