The Way that Strange Things are Beautiful
Title: The Way that Strange Things are Beautiful
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Draco/Bellatrix
Summary: Draco didn't kill Dumbledore. He isn't sure if he's being rewarded or punished.
WARNINGS: Bloodplay. Wandplay. Perhaps dubcon. Malfoycest. Insane!Bella. Thorough, utter, complete wrongness.
He's laying on his bed, both hands tucked behind his head, elbows jutting out like batwings, staring at his bedroom ceiling when she walks in without knocking. It's four o'clock in the morning. He hasn't slept. He hasn't changed his clothes.
The rest of them spent the night celebrating and then dropped off, drunk, downstairs. All except his mother, who put a shot of brandy into his tea and walked him to bed, her hands worrying at his body to make sure it was still intact before retiring to her own room, and Bellatrix, who never sleeps.
She never sleeps. They are the only ones awake. She opens his door, and he doesn't look at her and barely even hears her. His head is cloudy and thick, like fog, but shot through with bolts of lightning that make his eyes sting and his teeth ache. The brandy did nothing but stop him from shaking. "Draco," she says, her voice syrupy.
He can't move his head too quickly or the lightning strikes. He doesn't have to. She comes to the side of his bed and sits down, sets a bottle of firewhiskey and two shot glasses on his bedside cabinet. "Draco," she says again, leaning over him and placing her palm on his forehead. It's hot and it feels like it's crackling, and she draws it down his cheek slowly until the heel of her hand is under his chin. Her fingers are long and skinny, like his. He turns his head to look at her.
"You did well, little one," she trills, raking her nails against his skin just enough to make the muscles in his face tighten. "Ohhh," she says, as though catching herself in a mistake. "Not so little now! No," she says, and his gray eyes meet her dark ones. There is something glinting strangely behind them. There always is. Azkaban has not tamed her. It has barely touched her, only made her skin shrink down against her bones. In his family, there are quiet whispers about her madness, but Draco can't decide if madness is what he's seeing. "No, you're not little. You're a man now, aren't you, sweet one?"
He doesn't know the right answer. He doesn't feel like a man. When he stood and raised his wand, his hands shook. His knees knocked together. His teeth started chattering. The words wouldn't come. They couldn't get through his chest, because his heart had crumbled there, blocking the path. He had never felt smaller in his life. Not when his father had laid the belt across him, not when his mother had taken him into her lap, not when he had bounced back into himself after having been transfigured into an animal in front of half his school. Those were nothing compared to the way he had shrunk in the face of this; the way his very bones had shrieked in protest of it. Finally he answers, because she is waiting for it.
"I did nothing," he says, toneless. "I stood there."
Her face opens into a smile that is both knowing and wicked. Her eyes are bright, and she reaches over to pour from the bottle into both glasses. Draco can't tell if she's drunk, but he thinks that she must be; if not with the whiskey, then with delight. "Oh, precious," she says, reaching over to him with the liquid in her hand. "The first time is always the hardest. Severus can be a bit overzealous, see? He waited so long, and then you hesitated."
Draco's eyes darken. The storm in his head starts to blow.
Bellatrix continues. "But, sweet one, it's natural to hesitate the first time. We've all been there. It's new. You don't know how good it feels yet." She pushes upward at his shoulder, the light from Draco's bedside candle catching the intensity in her gaze. She wants him to sit up. His body feels heavy, like it's full of sand, but she's holding out whiskey for him, and he feels like he might start to shake again at any moment. He doesn't want her to see him shake. He forces himself to sit up.
"That's it," she whispers, putting the glass to his lips. He reaches up to take it from her, and their fingers brush. She pulls hers back slowly, letting them run over his flesh. He tilts his head back and swallows, and then she says, "Like sex."
The firewhiskey burns its way down his throat, cutting straight through the thickness there. It reaches his chest and spreads out in both directions.
"Good?" she asks. He nods. She drinks down her own and pours two more. "Like sex," she says again, her red lips twisting. "You're a man now. You can tell me, Draco. Have you been with a woman? Do you understand what I mean?" She arches her eyebrows and brings the whiskey back to Draco's lips.
He thinks he's going to need half the bottle to answer her question. He likes its warmth. He has been laying here on top of his covers, cold despite the fact that it's summer and he's still dressed in his school uniform, long sleeves and a tie. All that's missing are his shoes. His mother removed them before she left. He's fully dressed, and it's summer, and he feels frozen. When he swallows his second shot of whiskey, he nods at Bellatrix to pour another. Her smile widens, and she does. After he takes it, he answers her.
"Yes," he says.
Bellatrix beams at him and clasps her hands in a strange, triumphant gesture. "Of course," she says. "Big man, you are. Like your father. Who's the girl?"
Draco says "Pansy Parkinson," and then he swallows his fourth shot in as many minutes. He thinks that he hadn't felt much like a man then, either. He approached her with bravado and swagger -- he had copied it from his father; that was true -- and pretended that he had done this before, stuck his hand up her shirt and squeezed too hard, but she hadn't cared. She'd let him fall on top of her in the girls' dormitory, skiving off of Potions because they could get away with it, and wrapped her strong legs around him and let him fumble his way inside. It took him two tries. He was sure she could tell that he was lying, and he was sure that she had been lying when she said this was her first time, because she'd clamped down so hard around his cock that he'd come in less than two minutes, and she'd held his hand in place and rubbed against it until she whined into his ear.
Bellatrix laughs, and Draco recognizes the sound. It's the same laugh from last night, sharp and bubbling like pop. She says, "Little girl, Draco. Little girl. You're a man now! Time for a woman."
Draco just stares, holding the empty glass in his hand. He is starting to feel fuzzy. The edges of the lightning are blurred. He leans back against the headboard. He has no idea why his aunt is here. He thinks she's bored. She's pouring two more glasses, and hers has blood-colored lipstick around the rim. While his head is tilted back, she leans in close to his face and brings another shot to his lips. He lets her pour it into his mouth, because his hands feel like rubber. He swishes it around his teeth and lets the sting penetrate his gums before he swallows.
She leans back and takes him in, her eyes rolling frenetically across his body, still long and sprawling, his shirt untucked and his hair askew. "So like your father," she grins. Then her eyes snap to meet his, which are growing heavy, finally. "But you! You will be better than your father. The Dark Lord chose you young, Draco. He knows!" Her eyebrows shoot up. She leans close again. "Let me see it, precious."
He doesn't know what she's talking about, but she's groping at him before he can ask, her fingers attacking his buttons. He can feel her heat through the fabric. She isn't gentle. He screws up his face and pulls back, but she's strong, and she tears his tie from his neck and shoves it between her teeth before yanking him away from the headboard to pull his shirt from his shoulders. Draco is making noises at her, but he isn't sure if they're words, and if they are, she isn't listening. Her focus is incredible.
She tosses his shirt aside when she sees what she wants. She grabs his arm in both of her hands. Draco thinks he can feel the veins there close under her grip. She stares fixedly down at the Dark Mark and traces it with her fingertip. Her nails are ragged. She nicks him but doesn't stop, and he makes a sound of protest when his blood rises in a thin line. Everything in him shudders when she leans in and licks across the wound she's made, never taking her eyes off the Mark. Her mouth is warm. Something in her saliva stings. He's not cold anymore. The whiskey has warmed him through, turned his tongue into lead, numbed the savagery in his head. He thinks, Better than my father and closes his eyes as her lick turns into a kiss. He thinks he probably should leave, that this is going terribly wrong, that she really is mad. But where would he go? There is nowhere else that will take him except Azkaban now, and he thinks of his father there, and he here, and wonders if Bellatrix is right.
She kisses his forearm until it feels raw. She's speaking, and Draco thinks it's to him, but it might be to the Mark. "Your blood is royal," she whispers. "You are royalty. He has marked you worthy," and then she's biting at the flesh above the Mark, the sensitive parts near the bend in his elbow, and she isn't delicate. Draco grabs the bottle of firewhiskey with his other hand and gulps it hard, somehow knowing that if he pulls away, her mouth will hold on, and it will hurt worse than he can imagine through the white noise in his skull.
When she comes up, his blood is on her lips, and his arm looks ravaged. He can count her teeth from the imprints in his flesh. He is chewing on his own mouth, and he can taste metal. His arm is throbbing, and there is sweat across his naked chest now, and he is no longer cold, and Bellatrix is grinning, and Draco notices echoes of himself in her high, sharp cheekbones and narrow chin. Her tongue runs over her bloody mouth, sucking the mess from her lips. His mess.
Draco looks down at his arm and then back at his aunt, and his belly is recoiling despite the drink. His skin is white; the Mark is black, and his blood is bright red. He struggles to sit all the way up, but his head starts to spin when he does. He is afraid to open his mouth, not sure if he's going to retch, and he wonders if there is something in that bottle besides whiskey, or if he's just a moron who can't hold it down.
She is watching him like a cat might watch a bird, intent and predatory and amused. His arm is still oozing blood, and she dips her finger into it, painting a streak down to the top of the Mark before bringing it to her mouth. "You can taste the difference, you know," she says, her voice excited, "between pure blood and filth." Draco tries not to wonder how she knows. He can taste his own blood, still, in his mouth when he presses his tongue against the back of his bottom lip. Bellatrix watches him do this, and her breathing grows heavy and quick.
Her legs are on either side of him now. He can feel her pressing at the outside of his thighs, two bony knees holding him fast. She's smaller than him, with narrow shoulders and limbs like knife-blades. Draco knows that he is stronger than her, but he is exhausted, and he is dull and clumsy with drink, and he is transfixed by her as much as by the whiskey. Her eyes are large and heavy and beautiful in the way that strange things are beautiful. She doesn't look like his mother. She barely looks human.
He watches her as she reaches to the bedside table and picks up his wand from beside the bottle. This unnerves him, and he reaches out for it with his unbloodied arm, struggling to sit up straighter. "Mine," he manages.
She raises it out of his reach and runs it through her hand slowly, caressing it. She smiles down at Draco. "Tsk," she tuts at him. "I'm not going to steal it. I'm not a thief, Draco. I just want to touch it." She turns it over and over between her pale hands, running it lewdly between her fingers and through a tunnel she makes with her palm.
Without warning, she snaps it out straight and touches it against Draco's neck. His breath stops underneath it. She laughs, and it sounds, somehow, both cold and affectionate. She draws the tip of the wand down the front of his throat, down the center of his chest, and dips it into his exposed navel. Every muscle in its path retracts and starts leaping riotously under his skin. She doesn't stop. She skims it lower, over the pale path of hair below, and when she reaches the waist of his trousers, she pulls the wand over them. The button releases as she glides his wand over it. When she draws it over his cock beneath, it twitches, and Draco tries to keep his face steady, but she smiles wider, and he knows that she felt it. The wand traces a path down his thigh and stops at the hem of her robes, which are draped over his legs.
Smoothly, she changes direction and brings the tip of the wand over her own body. It runs up her leg and pauses for a moment in the groove between her hip and thigh. Draco doesn't know where to look. Her eyes are boring down at him, and his heart is thumping now, madly, and he thinks she can probably hear it. He swallows heavily to try and slow it, but it doesn't work. By the time he is finished swallowing a second time, she has started to glide the wand up the front of her body, up the path of buttons holding her robes together. One by one, they come apart, and as the fabric falls away, he sees that there is nothing underneath.
He blinks thickly in surprise, and when his eyes open again, her robes have fallen behind her and she is sitting naked across his thighs, looming and triumphant. Her skin is as pale as his. She is thin, but she doesn't look fragile; she looks sinewy and tight and dangerous. Her breasts are small and sharp, but they sit high on her chest. Her nipples are ochre and hard. For a few moments, she is just a woman, naked and straddling him. Heat is coming off of her in waves that he can feel through the material that separates their flesh. His body responds before he can tell it not to. She is watching.
He feels powerless under her gaze. He is powerless. He has no wand. His muscles are trembling mindlessly. His disobedient cock is straining at his fly. His stomach feels gnarled.
It is 4:23am. Hours ago, he held out his wand and could not use it, and now Bellatrix has taken it from him, and she is sliding it between her legs, pushing it slowly inside herself while he watches through red-ringed eyes. She rises up taller and arches her back, widening her legs. She pushes the wand in as far as it will go, her narrow chest heaving, and begins to thrust it in and out of her cunt. Her eyes never leave him. The smile never leaves her face. She makes no noise.
Draco's lip is back between his teeth, and he is biting down hard. He can taste blood again. This excites her. She reaches out her arm and wags a finger at his hand, which is balled into a fist by his side. He can't seem to make it move. He doesn't resist when she sinks down, burying his wand even deeper, and coils her hand around his wrist. She lifts it and brings it between her legs.
When she lets go, he is holding his wand and she is instructing him to fuck her with it. Those are the words she uses. Fuck me. Her chin is high, and she is looking down at him through her lashes, her eyes slitted. They are lit up and sparking. His pulse is loud in his head. It is echoing off of his bones and shaking things loose inside of him.
She is challenging him to stop this. She has placed his wand back into his hands and left herself vulnerable. She is measuring him. He can smell her, and he likes it, and he does what she says.
She breathes heavily. She is slippery. The wand moves easily inside of her. She stares at his mouth, which hangs open. There is a look in her eyes that Draco can't discern, and he is tumbling it through his clouded head when she stops abruptly and reaches down to smack his hand back. The wand slips from his fingers. She catches it and points it down at him. He looks up, startled.
He is flushed. So is she. She thrusts the wand at his mouth and it is past his teeth before he can shut it. He tastes her on it, acidic and musky and sharp. "Suck, precious," she says, her voice clear and almost playful. Draco's lips close, and she pushes the wand down against his tongue, and he sucks. She spins the smooth wood back and forth, jutting it in further. He takes it. She is watching closely, her other hand between her legs, one finger drawing slow circles.
Abruptly, she pulls the wand from his mouth and throws it aside. It drops with a thick thump to the carpet.
She kisses him, then, pressing her breasts flat into his chest and biting fiercely at his ruined lower lip. He squirms under her and groans in pain, and the sound makes her grind her hips down and jerk them. Draco's mouth fills with blood, and her tongue laps at it, hungry. She sucks hard, and his mouth throbs and shrieks, and her jagged nails cut the skin of his shoulder when she claws at him.
The zip of his trousers is wet where she is sliding against them, and he can feel the moist heat against his cock. He is so hard that it hurts. He isn't thinking. He can't think. He is all sensation; he is all blood; he is wondering if he is going to survive, or if this is her punishment for his failure to act. He wonders if she might eat him when she is through.
She sits up, but she doesn't release his lip, and he has to scramble onto his elbows to follow her. She leans back and pulls him toward her. She slaps sharply at his arse, yanking him onto his knees. It stings. He jerks, startled, and she slaps him again, harder. He can't figure out what she wants, so she hits him again. Her hand is small. She's a full head shorter than he is when they are kneeling. She's still got his lip clamped between her teeth. He is bleeding freely into her mouth and down his chin. She finally grows frustrated and tears his fly apart, pulling his trousers and his shorts over his hips with a snarl.
Pushing him backwards and releasing his mouth, she pulls his clothes from him. His trousers catch around his feet, and she fairly howls. She is impatient now. She seizes his cock. It's leaking and purple, and he thinks he's going to come right there. He doesn't. Her grip is tight. She crawls over him and sits down, hard, and he is inside of her. She is hot. She is so wet that she is actually dripping.
Bellatrix is quick and graceful and merciless. There is blood on her mouth, and she's licking at it. Her eyes are shining. Draco feels heavy and overwhelmed, and his eyes are rolling back, and he can't keep up with her. She doesn't seem to notice. They have no rhythm. He has the bedclothes tight in his fists, and he is holding on, and she is fucking herself with him, sometimes shallow strokes, but usually so deep he can feel himself bump against something hard inside of her. When this happens, she growls and runs her nails across his chest. His skin is crosshatched.
When he comes, it is more a relief than anything else. It feels like pulling out a tooth that has been loose and wobbling and stubborn. His cock pulses dully three times, and she slaps him across the face and comes with a shriek that sounds like something is being ripped from her chest. The slap feels better than his orgasm. It's sharp, and it stings, and it parts the clouds in his head. His eyes snap open in time to watch her climbing off of him.
She doesn't dress. She doesn't wipe the blood from herself. She doesn't wipe the come from herself. It's running down her legs as she drapes her robes over her arm. Her hair looks like a thunderhead, dark and foreboding. Her eyes are hooded and thoroughly satisfied.
"You did well," she says. She bends over Draco to kiss him. The blood on his face hasn't dried. It's mixed with spit and sweat. It's smeared across his mouth. After she kisses his lips, she presses a kiss into the hollow of his throat, where his pulse is still wild. "Do you want me to come back and play?"
He does. He nods. He wants to be opened up and bled dry. He wants to know that there is still something hot inside of him.
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Draco/Bellatrix
Summary: Draco didn't kill Dumbledore. He isn't sure if he's being rewarded or punished.
WARNINGS: Bloodplay. Wandplay. Perhaps dubcon. Malfoycest. Insane!Bella. Thorough, utter, complete wrongness.
He's laying on his bed, both hands tucked behind his head, elbows jutting out like batwings, staring at his bedroom ceiling when she walks in without knocking. It's four o'clock in the morning. He hasn't slept. He hasn't changed his clothes.
The rest of them spent the night celebrating and then dropped off, drunk, downstairs. All except his mother, who put a shot of brandy into his tea and walked him to bed, her hands worrying at his body to make sure it was still intact before retiring to her own room, and Bellatrix, who never sleeps.
She never sleeps. They are the only ones awake. She opens his door, and he doesn't look at her and barely even hears her. His head is cloudy and thick, like fog, but shot through with bolts of lightning that make his eyes sting and his teeth ache. The brandy did nothing but stop him from shaking. "Draco," she says, her voice syrupy.
He can't move his head too quickly or the lightning strikes. He doesn't have to. She comes to the side of his bed and sits down, sets a bottle of firewhiskey and two shot glasses on his bedside cabinet. "Draco," she says again, leaning over him and placing her palm on his forehead. It's hot and it feels like it's crackling, and she draws it down his cheek slowly until the heel of her hand is under his chin. Her fingers are long and skinny, like his. He turns his head to look at her.
"You did well, little one," she trills, raking her nails against his skin just enough to make the muscles in his face tighten. "Ohhh," she says, as though catching herself in a mistake. "Not so little now! No," she says, and his gray eyes meet her dark ones. There is something glinting strangely behind them. There always is. Azkaban has not tamed her. It has barely touched her, only made her skin shrink down against her bones. In his family, there are quiet whispers about her madness, but Draco can't decide if madness is what he's seeing. "No, you're not little. You're a man now, aren't you, sweet one?"
He doesn't know the right answer. He doesn't feel like a man. When he stood and raised his wand, his hands shook. His knees knocked together. His teeth started chattering. The words wouldn't come. They couldn't get through his chest, because his heart had crumbled there, blocking the path. He had never felt smaller in his life. Not when his father had laid the belt across him, not when his mother had taken him into her lap, not when he had bounced back into himself after having been transfigured into an animal in front of half his school. Those were nothing compared to the way he had shrunk in the face of this; the way his very bones had shrieked in protest of it. Finally he answers, because she is waiting for it.
"I did nothing," he says, toneless. "I stood there."
Her face opens into a smile that is both knowing and wicked. Her eyes are bright, and she reaches over to pour from the bottle into both glasses. Draco can't tell if she's drunk, but he thinks that she must be; if not with the whiskey, then with delight. "Oh, precious," she says, reaching over to him with the liquid in her hand. "The first time is always the hardest. Severus can be a bit overzealous, see? He waited so long, and then you hesitated."
Draco's eyes darken. The storm in his head starts to blow.
Bellatrix continues. "But, sweet one, it's natural to hesitate the first time. We've all been there. It's new. You don't know how good it feels yet." She pushes upward at his shoulder, the light from Draco's bedside candle catching the intensity in her gaze. She wants him to sit up. His body feels heavy, like it's full of sand, but she's holding out whiskey for him, and he feels like he might start to shake again at any moment. He doesn't want her to see him shake. He forces himself to sit up.
"That's it," she whispers, putting the glass to his lips. He reaches up to take it from her, and their fingers brush. She pulls hers back slowly, letting them run over his flesh. He tilts his head back and swallows, and then she says, "Like sex."
The firewhiskey burns its way down his throat, cutting straight through the thickness there. It reaches his chest and spreads out in both directions.
"Good?" she asks. He nods. She drinks down her own and pours two more. "Like sex," she says again, her red lips twisting. "You're a man now. You can tell me, Draco. Have you been with a woman? Do you understand what I mean?" She arches her eyebrows and brings the whiskey back to Draco's lips.
He thinks he's going to need half the bottle to answer her question. He likes its warmth. He has been laying here on top of his covers, cold despite the fact that it's summer and he's still dressed in his school uniform, long sleeves and a tie. All that's missing are his shoes. His mother removed them before she left. He's fully dressed, and it's summer, and he feels frozen. When he swallows his second shot of whiskey, he nods at Bellatrix to pour another. Her smile widens, and she does. After he takes it, he answers her.
"Yes," he says.
Bellatrix beams at him and clasps her hands in a strange, triumphant gesture. "Of course," she says. "Big man, you are. Like your father. Who's the girl?"
Draco says "Pansy Parkinson," and then he swallows his fourth shot in as many minutes. He thinks that he hadn't felt much like a man then, either. He approached her with bravado and swagger -- he had copied it from his father; that was true -- and pretended that he had done this before, stuck his hand up her shirt and squeezed too hard, but she hadn't cared. She'd let him fall on top of her in the girls' dormitory, skiving off of Potions because they could get away with it, and wrapped her strong legs around him and let him fumble his way inside. It took him two tries. He was sure she could tell that he was lying, and he was sure that she had been lying when she said this was her first time, because she'd clamped down so hard around his cock that he'd come in less than two minutes, and she'd held his hand in place and rubbed against it until she whined into his ear.
Bellatrix laughs, and Draco recognizes the sound. It's the same laugh from last night, sharp and bubbling like pop. She says, "Little girl, Draco. Little girl. You're a man now! Time for a woman."
Draco just stares, holding the empty glass in his hand. He is starting to feel fuzzy. The edges of the lightning are blurred. He leans back against the headboard. He has no idea why his aunt is here. He thinks she's bored. She's pouring two more glasses, and hers has blood-colored lipstick around the rim. While his head is tilted back, she leans in close to his face and brings another shot to his lips. He lets her pour it into his mouth, because his hands feel like rubber. He swishes it around his teeth and lets the sting penetrate his gums before he swallows.
She leans back and takes him in, her eyes rolling frenetically across his body, still long and sprawling, his shirt untucked and his hair askew. "So like your father," she grins. Then her eyes snap to meet his, which are growing heavy, finally. "But you! You will be better than your father. The Dark Lord chose you young, Draco. He knows!" Her eyebrows shoot up. She leans close again. "Let me see it, precious."
He doesn't know what she's talking about, but she's groping at him before he can ask, her fingers attacking his buttons. He can feel her heat through the fabric. She isn't gentle. He screws up his face and pulls back, but she's strong, and she tears his tie from his neck and shoves it between her teeth before yanking him away from the headboard to pull his shirt from his shoulders. Draco is making noises at her, but he isn't sure if they're words, and if they are, she isn't listening. Her focus is incredible.
She tosses his shirt aside when she sees what she wants. She grabs his arm in both of her hands. Draco thinks he can feel the veins there close under her grip. She stares fixedly down at the Dark Mark and traces it with her fingertip. Her nails are ragged. She nicks him but doesn't stop, and he makes a sound of protest when his blood rises in a thin line. Everything in him shudders when she leans in and licks across the wound she's made, never taking her eyes off the Mark. Her mouth is warm. Something in her saliva stings. He's not cold anymore. The whiskey has warmed him through, turned his tongue into lead, numbed the savagery in his head. He thinks, Better than my father and closes his eyes as her lick turns into a kiss. He thinks he probably should leave, that this is going terribly wrong, that she really is mad. But where would he go? There is nowhere else that will take him except Azkaban now, and he thinks of his father there, and he here, and wonders if Bellatrix is right.
She kisses his forearm until it feels raw. She's speaking, and Draco thinks it's to him, but it might be to the Mark. "Your blood is royal," she whispers. "You are royalty. He has marked you worthy," and then she's biting at the flesh above the Mark, the sensitive parts near the bend in his elbow, and she isn't delicate. Draco grabs the bottle of firewhiskey with his other hand and gulps it hard, somehow knowing that if he pulls away, her mouth will hold on, and it will hurt worse than he can imagine through the white noise in his skull.
When she comes up, his blood is on her lips, and his arm looks ravaged. He can count her teeth from the imprints in his flesh. He is chewing on his own mouth, and he can taste metal. His arm is throbbing, and there is sweat across his naked chest now, and he is no longer cold, and Bellatrix is grinning, and Draco notices echoes of himself in her high, sharp cheekbones and narrow chin. Her tongue runs over her bloody mouth, sucking the mess from her lips. His mess.
Draco looks down at his arm and then back at his aunt, and his belly is recoiling despite the drink. His skin is white; the Mark is black, and his blood is bright red. He struggles to sit all the way up, but his head starts to spin when he does. He is afraid to open his mouth, not sure if he's going to retch, and he wonders if there is something in that bottle besides whiskey, or if he's just a moron who can't hold it down.
She is watching him like a cat might watch a bird, intent and predatory and amused. His arm is still oozing blood, and she dips her finger into it, painting a streak down to the top of the Mark before bringing it to her mouth. "You can taste the difference, you know," she says, her voice excited, "between pure blood and filth." Draco tries not to wonder how she knows. He can taste his own blood, still, in his mouth when he presses his tongue against the back of his bottom lip. Bellatrix watches him do this, and her breathing grows heavy and quick.
Her legs are on either side of him now. He can feel her pressing at the outside of his thighs, two bony knees holding him fast. She's smaller than him, with narrow shoulders and limbs like knife-blades. Draco knows that he is stronger than her, but he is exhausted, and he is dull and clumsy with drink, and he is transfixed by her as much as by the whiskey. Her eyes are large and heavy and beautiful in the way that strange things are beautiful. She doesn't look like his mother. She barely looks human.
He watches her as she reaches to the bedside table and picks up his wand from beside the bottle. This unnerves him, and he reaches out for it with his unbloodied arm, struggling to sit up straighter. "Mine," he manages.
She raises it out of his reach and runs it through her hand slowly, caressing it. She smiles down at Draco. "Tsk," she tuts at him. "I'm not going to steal it. I'm not a thief, Draco. I just want to touch it." She turns it over and over between her pale hands, running it lewdly between her fingers and through a tunnel she makes with her palm.
Without warning, she snaps it out straight and touches it against Draco's neck. His breath stops underneath it. She laughs, and it sounds, somehow, both cold and affectionate. She draws the tip of the wand down the front of his throat, down the center of his chest, and dips it into his exposed navel. Every muscle in its path retracts and starts leaping riotously under his skin. She doesn't stop. She skims it lower, over the pale path of hair below, and when she reaches the waist of his trousers, she pulls the wand over them. The button releases as she glides his wand over it. When she draws it over his cock beneath, it twitches, and Draco tries to keep his face steady, but she smiles wider, and he knows that she felt it. The wand traces a path down his thigh and stops at the hem of her robes, which are draped over his legs.
Smoothly, she changes direction and brings the tip of the wand over her own body. It runs up her leg and pauses for a moment in the groove between her hip and thigh. Draco doesn't know where to look. Her eyes are boring down at him, and his heart is thumping now, madly, and he thinks she can probably hear it. He swallows heavily to try and slow it, but it doesn't work. By the time he is finished swallowing a second time, she has started to glide the wand up the front of her body, up the path of buttons holding her robes together. One by one, they come apart, and as the fabric falls away, he sees that there is nothing underneath.
He blinks thickly in surprise, and when his eyes open again, her robes have fallen behind her and she is sitting naked across his thighs, looming and triumphant. Her skin is as pale as his. She is thin, but she doesn't look fragile; she looks sinewy and tight and dangerous. Her breasts are small and sharp, but they sit high on her chest. Her nipples are ochre and hard. For a few moments, she is just a woman, naked and straddling him. Heat is coming off of her in waves that he can feel through the material that separates their flesh. His body responds before he can tell it not to. She is watching.
He feels powerless under her gaze. He is powerless. He has no wand. His muscles are trembling mindlessly. His disobedient cock is straining at his fly. His stomach feels gnarled.
It is 4:23am. Hours ago, he held out his wand and could not use it, and now Bellatrix has taken it from him, and she is sliding it between her legs, pushing it slowly inside herself while he watches through red-ringed eyes. She rises up taller and arches her back, widening her legs. She pushes the wand in as far as it will go, her narrow chest heaving, and begins to thrust it in and out of her cunt. Her eyes never leave him. The smile never leaves her face. She makes no noise.
Draco's lip is back between his teeth, and he is biting down hard. He can taste blood again. This excites her. She reaches out her arm and wags a finger at his hand, which is balled into a fist by his side. He can't seem to make it move. He doesn't resist when she sinks down, burying his wand even deeper, and coils her hand around his wrist. She lifts it and brings it between her legs.
When she lets go, he is holding his wand and she is instructing him to fuck her with it. Those are the words she uses. Fuck me. Her chin is high, and she is looking down at him through her lashes, her eyes slitted. They are lit up and sparking. His pulse is loud in his head. It is echoing off of his bones and shaking things loose inside of him.
She is challenging him to stop this. She has placed his wand back into his hands and left herself vulnerable. She is measuring him. He can smell her, and he likes it, and he does what she says.
She breathes heavily. She is slippery. The wand moves easily inside of her. She stares at his mouth, which hangs open. There is a look in her eyes that Draco can't discern, and he is tumbling it through his clouded head when she stops abruptly and reaches down to smack his hand back. The wand slips from his fingers. She catches it and points it down at him. He looks up, startled.
He is flushed. So is she. She thrusts the wand at his mouth and it is past his teeth before he can shut it. He tastes her on it, acidic and musky and sharp. "Suck, precious," she says, her voice clear and almost playful. Draco's lips close, and she pushes the wand down against his tongue, and he sucks. She spins the smooth wood back and forth, jutting it in further. He takes it. She is watching closely, her other hand between her legs, one finger drawing slow circles.
Abruptly, she pulls the wand from his mouth and throws it aside. It drops with a thick thump to the carpet.
She kisses him, then, pressing her breasts flat into his chest and biting fiercely at his ruined lower lip. He squirms under her and groans in pain, and the sound makes her grind her hips down and jerk them. Draco's mouth fills with blood, and her tongue laps at it, hungry. She sucks hard, and his mouth throbs and shrieks, and her jagged nails cut the skin of his shoulder when she claws at him.
The zip of his trousers is wet where she is sliding against them, and he can feel the moist heat against his cock. He is so hard that it hurts. He isn't thinking. He can't think. He is all sensation; he is all blood; he is wondering if he is going to survive, or if this is her punishment for his failure to act. He wonders if she might eat him when she is through.
She sits up, but she doesn't release his lip, and he has to scramble onto his elbows to follow her. She leans back and pulls him toward her. She slaps sharply at his arse, yanking him onto his knees. It stings. He jerks, startled, and she slaps him again, harder. He can't figure out what she wants, so she hits him again. Her hand is small. She's a full head shorter than he is when they are kneeling. She's still got his lip clamped between her teeth. He is bleeding freely into her mouth and down his chin. She finally grows frustrated and tears his fly apart, pulling his trousers and his shorts over his hips with a snarl.
Pushing him backwards and releasing his mouth, she pulls his clothes from him. His trousers catch around his feet, and she fairly howls. She is impatient now. She seizes his cock. It's leaking and purple, and he thinks he's going to come right there. He doesn't. Her grip is tight. She crawls over him and sits down, hard, and he is inside of her. She is hot. She is so wet that she is actually dripping.
Bellatrix is quick and graceful and merciless. There is blood on her mouth, and she's licking at it. Her eyes are shining. Draco feels heavy and overwhelmed, and his eyes are rolling back, and he can't keep up with her. She doesn't seem to notice. They have no rhythm. He has the bedclothes tight in his fists, and he is holding on, and she is fucking herself with him, sometimes shallow strokes, but usually so deep he can feel himself bump against something hard inside of her. When this happens, she growls and runs her nails across his chest. His skin is crosshatched.
When he comes, it is more a relief than anything else. It feels like pulling out a tooth that has been loose and wobbling and stubborn. His cock pulses dully three times, and she slaps him across the face and comes with a shriek that sounds like something is being ripped from her chest. The slap feels better than his orgasm. It's sharp, and it stings, and it parts the clouds in his head. His eyes snap open in time to watch her climbing off of him.
She doesn't dress. She doesn't wipe the blood from herself. She doesn't wipe the come from herself. It's running down her legs as she drapes her robes over her arm. Her hair looks like a thunderhead, dark and foreboding. Her eyes are hooded and thoroughly satisfied.
"You did well," she says. She bends over Draco to kiss him. The blood on his face hasn't dried. It's mixed with spit and sweat. It's smeared across his mouth. After she kisses his lips, she presses a kiss into the hollow of his throat, where his pulse is still wild. "Do you want me to come back and play?"
He does. He nods. He wants to be opened up and bled dry. He wants to know that there is still something hot inside of him.