Fic - "In The Wrong Light" (Lucius Malfoy/Bellatrix Lestrange, NC-17)
Title: In The Wrong Light
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Bellatrix Lestrange
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Fingering, brief genital abuse, possible non-con.
Word count: 1,957
Summary: A post-Azkaban Bellatrix languishes in a spare room in Malfoy Manor. Lucius naturally believes he knows a cure for her erratic behaviour.
A/N: Originally this opened with Lucius failing to make a decent cup of tea, which I apparently found hysterical at the time of writing because, you know, us Brits and our tea. Guffaw.
The unopened letters resulting from yesterday morning’s business sat, thick and pale, beside Lucius’s hand. The lack of any outward mark of urgency graciously allowed him to ignore the obtuse pile entirely in favour of wistfully considering the idea of a secretary. A woman, naturally. Women were good with the delicate matter of polite snidery.
Upstairs, a large mirror smashed.
Not again. Lucius pushed his chair back, strode around the table and headed directly for the stairs. He took them two at a time, stalked along the first floor corridor and stopped in the doorway of the glass-speckled bedroom.
“I would appreciate it if you did not destroy my decorative ornaments,” he sneered.
The woman inside pulled a shard of glass from her palm. Her blood dribbled freely onto her dress and the carpet; Lucius inhaled.
“The light’s wrong in here, all of it’s wrong,” returned the woman in a mutter, gazing at her wound.
“Bellatrix,” snapped Lucius, “You br-“
He stopped. A pair of dark eyes had swivelled around and locked onto his face. They were glassy, immobile, blank.
Lucius turned naturally to coerciveness, often needed as it was nowadays. “Narcissa and I have let you stay here whilst you -”
She turned away again and he slammed his hand against the doorframe. The sound jolted a small, gurgling laugh from the figure hunched at the foot of the bed. “You don’t want me here,” she whispered. Roughened by years of damp, chill and infrequent use, her voice scratched. “You only do it because of Cissy.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” he returned shortly.
“You’re right.” Her tongue bathed her cut.
“You might at least attempt to keep your surroundings tidy,” Lucius continued, begrudgingly staring at the felinity of his sister-in-law’s wound-staunching. Her languid strokes appeared to aggravate the torn skin more; she sighed, disappointed or content, he could not tell. “Especially when they aren’t yours.”
She curled her fist over her cut, keeping her weird little prize to herself. “I might do something to myself,” she recited tiredly, “that’s why I must stay here.” She stretched out a stockinged leg across the rug and Lucius saw she hadn’t put on underwear. He automatically flicked his gaze to the wall, not surprised when the gold and cream decor couldn’t calm the lively rhythm suddenly thrumming in his groin.
“Bella,” he started again, lowering his voice, “Narcissa thinks - Narcissa believes...”
“Don’t call me Bella,” she countered smoothly. “Hiding behind Narcissa... I’m not completely shot in the head.” She shrugged itchily. “You all think the same of me at any rate.” Her toes curled, straightened, flexed back.
“No.” Something about the way she was accepting of her own wretchedness pricked at his stomach.
“Yes,” she said, “now go away.”
He was in front of her in five swift strides and had her wrists locked in his long fingers before she’d moved an inch. He stared into her face. “You need to stop,” he hissed, “because you are making Narcissa worried.”
Bellatrix gazed up at him. One eyelid flickered - nerve damage. “I’m making you worried,” she said flatly. “It’s all over your face. That, or the light’s -”
Losing his temper, Lucius yanked her up, only to desist almost immediately and stumble over the deadweight hanging below. He shook her hard, pressed his unforgiving fingertips into her skin, then suddenly she lurched forward and her head was against his chest. He stilled in slight amazement, looking down on the top of her ragged hair. She was calmly nestled against him. He might have been cradling a child.
As quickly as she had appropriated him she moved off. She sat heavily in her sister’s borrowed clothing and sighed, casting anxious looks around at the broken glass anew. “It’s all wrong,” she said slowly.
Lucius lowered himself to one knee before her. He still held her wrists, but loosened his grip to accommodate her bones properly. Her dress was half-buttoned, opened at the front. “What isn’t right with the light?” he asked. The silence fell open between them; he snaked his head down to interrupt her stare and repeated gently, “What isn’t right?” His glance dropped down for one second and, unwillingly, he noticed how much larger and darker her nipples were than her sister’s. Against the dove-coloured dress that wasn’t hers, they looked deliciously feral.
Bellatrix was watching him now without much emotion. “I haven’t come for an age,” she stated.
He smoothed his hand up across her flank, noting how her starved areolae puckered even at this. His cock, so properly concealed under well-pressed trousers, was swelling thickly with lust. He would have to do something about it.
“It is too bright by far,” she sighed, bringing him back to the situation at hand. She let her head fall back onto the quilted foot of her bed. “It makes me uglier.”
She was uglier now than she had been, it was true. Solitary confinement had shredded her up and put her back together in a strange order. Lucius touched his lips to her forehead.
“Don’t you dare pity me,” came the quiet hiss from below.
Lucius smirked. “I would never waste a pinch of feeling on you, witch,” he whispered into the greying baby fronds around her hairline. He gripped her calf violently, pushed his hand along the leg until he was savagely grasping at her thigh. He squeezed, massaged, until the low snarls smoking from between her lips and into his long hair made his cock strain hard.
“How many before me?” he breathed, and rammed his palm tightly against her vulva. Her harsh snort drove the heel of his hand harder against her mound and then she spat, “Two.”
His impatient fingers ranged through her wiry, overlong pubic hair as he worked her tight folds open. She turned her hips, dislodging his hand momentarily before he had hold of her again. Narcissa was more obedient but teaching was his forte. “Who?” he hissed into her ear, covering her body with his shadow, his torso, and he tapped her clit tersely when she took too long to answer.
“AH -” Bellatrix grabbed his upper arms - “Rodolphus, Barty -”
“Crouch?” Lucius laughed sharply. Bellatrix lifted her wicked eyes to his.
“Well,” she said, “the boy was beautiful.”
A long finger pierced her unpractised entrance and she keened in protest. “Quiet,” Lucius admonished. His forefinger slid deeper into his sister-in-law. “We shan’t tell Narcissa about this - much as she would like to know you’re recovering well,” purred Lucius, beginning to rotate and bend his finger inside Bellatrix’s hot slick passage, “she wouldn’t appreciate the means you are taking to get there.”
Bellatrix moaned.
“So you stop complaining about the light -” Lucius shot a delicate mockery through the word, “and we shall see what I can do for you.”
“Do it now,” came the fraught reply, as she tightened herself around his persuasive finger.
He pulled his hand free from her, and grabbing her around the stomach lifted her and threw her face down onto her bed. “Exquisite little whore, aren’t you?” he breathed, pushing his wife’s dress up around the hips of her shadowy sister. He cast a hungry eye over her bare arse, followed it up with a stroke of his open palm across one of her buttocks. She had slid backwards into him and was scrabbling with her toes as the fine stockings failed to grip the carpet properly. He seized the tops and ripped them clean off her legs. He knelt and branded her skin with hot coils of his breath; “You’re all the same under your skirts,” he said, brushing his lower lip against her thigh and unbuttoning his trousers. “But you are decidedly the most savage,” he added with a firm tug at the unkempt coarseness of her groin, and as she mewled he rose and pressed the come-slicked head of his cock against her entrance. She angrily bucked her hips up toward him and he took the cue, driving into her with a grunt.
She only needed to be fucked and he was not prepared to show affection anyway. He thrust deep inside her, and again, lurching and settling into a forceful rhythm. Her hands gripped the quilt and his own clamped on top, holding her there. Her sudden tautness and panic suggested she’d underestimated the width of him and as a precaution he lay directly over her, ramming his cock in, claiming every inch of her pulsing flesh selfishly before she could pull off.
“You’re the same,” she panted under him, “as all of them - us - we’re all animals in gold.”
Lucius wrenched her head up by her curls and thrust into her so hard her toes left the floor. She was a screeching diagonal line for a moment before he pinned her back down and fucked her with short, shallow plunges. He wasn’t going to last long enough to really hurt her, he realised, though it didn’t matter at this point, he wanted to come now, now, stretched her cunt open painfully by angling his thrusts upwards and rewarded her bruised arse with a slap.
She ripped the silk coverlet with her grasp, cried out weakly with her own orgasm: sweet and dull from years in repose.
He felt the aggravation building outwards from his core, pushed all the way into her as her walls sucked at him, felt a powerful rush of maddening relief and covered her insides with semen, head flung back like a stallion.
Bellatrix crawled away almost immediately. Lucius’s cock slithered gracelessly from her, empty, limp, dribbling strings of his pureblood ejaculate - the same as anyone else’s to look at, he thought hazily - over the torn skins of the discarded stockings. Bellatrix had turned around and was wiping off the come spattered on her skin with the dress hem.
Lucius eased his tender cock back into his clothing. He fixed his mask as easily as he fixed the room, sliding his wand out and repairing the shattered mirror, Vanishing the errant spurts of cloudy liquid on the sheets, all the while paying more attention to how Bellatrix had now seated herself precariously on the furthermost side of her bed and was staring out of the window. He was unsure whether she was regretting what she’d succumbed to, or was - more likely, if he knew her at all - burning with secret triumph.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t meddle with things again, Bellatrix,” he said firmly.
She continued to watch the trees.
“Or I shall have to confiscate your wand and... force you to earn it back.”
The thick preoccupation around her dissolved with the look she tossed over her shoulder. A quick smirk twisted her face. “The light is right, for now,” she said. “It showed what dogs we are.”
Lucius frowned and turned his back on her, walking to the door. The letters downstairs suddenly became of unbearable importance.
“When it goes wrong again, Lucius -” she licked her lips, shuffled in the charlatan dress hiding her wasted body -“I’ll let you know.”
He paused briefly. “Make sure you do,” he warned smoothly.
She grinned around yellow teeth, poniarding him with her grotesque waxen blankness. As he strode out and descended rapidly back down into the stuffy drawing room, her splenetic laughter trickled down the stairs and lay in wait outside the slammed door, knowing that in the immaculate, expensively-furnished space, the light was suddenly all wrong.
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Bellatrix Lestrange
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Fingering, brief genital abuse, possible non-con.
Word count: 1,957
Summary: A post-Azkaban Bellatrix languishes in a spare room in Malfoy Manor. Lucius naturally believes he knows a cure for her erratic behaviour.
A/N: Originally this opened with Lucius failing to make a decent cup of tea, which I apparently found hysterical at the time of writing because, you know, us Brits and our tea. Guffaw.
The unopened letters resulting from yesterday morning’s business sat, thick and pale, beside Lucius’s hand. The lack of any outward mark of urgency graciously allowed him to ignore the obtuse pile entirely in favour of wistfully considering the idea of a secretary. A woman, naturally. Women were good with the delicate matter of polite snidery.
Upstairs, a large mirror smashed.
Not again. Lucius pushed his chair back, strode around the table and headed directly for the stairs. He took them two at a time, stalked along the first floor corridor and stopped in the doorway of the glass-speckled bedroom.
“I would appreciate it if you did not destroy my decorative ornaments,” he sneered.
The woman inside pulled a shard of glass from her palm. Her blood dribbled freely onto her dress and the carpet; Lucius inhaled.
“The light’s wrong in here, all of it’s wrong,” returned the woman in a mutter, gazing at her wound.
“Bellatrix,” snapped Lucius, “You br-“
He stopped. A pair of dark eyes had swivelled around and locked onto his face. They were glassy, immobile, blank.
Lucius turned naturally to coerciveness, often needed as it was nowadays. “Narcissa and I have let you stay here whilst you -”
She turned away again and he slammed his hand against the doorframe. The sound jolted a small, gurgling laugh from the figure hunched at the foot of the bed. “You don’t want me here,” she whispered. Roughened by years of damp, chill and infrequent use, her voice scratched. “You only do it because of Cissy.”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” he returned shortly.
“You’re right.” Her tongue bathed her cut.
“You might at least attempt to keep your surroundings tidy,” Lucius continued, begrudgingly staring at the felinity of his sister-in-law’s wound-staunching. Her languid strokes appeared to aggravate the torn skin more; she sighed, disappointed or content, he could not tell. “Especially when they aren’t yours.”
She curled her fist over her cut, keeping her weird little prize to herself. “I might do something to myself,” she recited tiredly, “that’s why I must stay here.” She stretched out a stockinged leg across the rug and Lucius saw she hadn’t put on underwear. He automatically flicked his gaze to the wall, not surprised when the gold and cream decor couldn’t calm the lively rhythm suddenly thrumming in his groin.
“Bella,” he started again, lowering his voice, “Narcissa thinks - Narcissa believes...”
“Don’t call me Bella,” she countered smoothly. “Hiding behind Narcissa... I’m not completely shot in the head.” She shrugged itchily. “You all think the same of me at any rate.” Her toes curled, straightened, flexed back.
“No.” Something about the way she was accepting of her own wretchedness pricked at his stomach.
“Yes,” she said, “now go away.”
He was in front of her in five swift strides and had her wrists locked in his long fingers before she’d moved an inch. He stared into her face. “You need to stop,” he hissed, “because you are making Narcissa worried.”
Bellatrix gazed up at him. One eyelid flickered - nerve damage. “I’m making you worried,” she said flatly. “It’s all over your face. That, or the light’s -”
Losing his temper, Lucius yanked her up, only to desist almost immediately and stumble over the deadweight hanging below. He shook her hard, pressed his unforgiving fingertips into her skin, then suddenly she lurched forward and her head was against his chest. He stilled in slight amazement, looking down on the top of her ragged hair. She was calmly nestled against him. He might have been cradling a child.
As quickly as she had appropriated him she moved off. She sat heavily in her sister’s borrowed clothing and sighed, casting anxious looks around at the broken glass anew. “It’s all wrong,” she said slowly.
Lucius lowered himself to one knee before her. He still held her wrists, but loosened his grip to accommodate her bones properly. Her dress was half-buttoned, opened at the front. “What isn’t right with the light?” he asked. The silence fell open between them; he snaked his head down to interrupt her stare and repeated gently, “What isn’t right?” His glance dropped down for one second and, unwillingly, he noticed how much larger and darker her nipples were than her sister’s. Against the dove-coloured dress that wasn’t hers, they looked deliciously feral.
Bellatrix was watching him now without much emotion. “I haven’t come for an age,” she stated.
He smoothed his hand up across her flank, noting how her starved areolae puckered even at this. His cock, so properly concealed under well-pressed trousers, was swelling thickly with lust. He would have to do something about it.
“It is too bright by far,” she sighed, bringing him back to the situation at hand. She let her head fall back onto the quilted foot of her bed. “It makes me uglier.”
She was uglier now than she had been, it was true. Solitary confinement had shredded her up and put her back together in a strange order. Lucius touched his lips to her forehead.
“Don’t you dare pity me,” came the quiet hiss from below.
Lucius smirked. “I would never waste a pinch of feeling on you, witch,” he whispered into the greying baby fronds around her hairline. He gripped her calf violently, pushed his hand along the leg until he was savagely grasping at her thigh. He squeezed, massaged, until the low snarls smoking from between her lips and into his long hair made his cock strain hard.
“How many before me?” he breathed, and rammed his palm tightly against her vulva. Her harsh snort drove the heel of his hand harder against her mound and then she spat, “Two.”
His impatient fingers ranged through her wiry, overlong pubic hair as he worked her tight folds open. She turned her hips, dislodging his hand momentarily before he had hold of her again. Narcissa was more obedient but teaching was his forte. “Who?” he hissed into her ear, covering her body with his shadow, his torso, and he tapped her clit tersely when she took too long to answer.
“AH -” Bellatrix grabbed his upper arms - “Rodolphus, Barty -”
“Crouch?” Lucius laughed sharply. Bellatrix lifted her wicked eyes to his.
“Well,” she said, “the boy was beautiful.”
A long finger pierced her unpractised entrance and she keened in protest. “Quiet,” Lucius admonished. His forefinger slid deeper into his sister-in-law. “We shan’t tell Narcissa about this - much as she would like to know you’re recovering well,” purred Lucius, beginning to rotate and bend his finger inside Bellatrix’s hot slick passage, “she wouldn’t appreciate the means you are taking to get there.”
Bellatrix moaned.
“So you stop complaining about the light -” Lucius shot a delicate mockery through the word, “and we shall see what I can do for you.”
“Do it now,” came the fraught reply, as she tightened herself around his persuasive finger.
He pulled his hand free from her, and grabbing her around the stomach lifted her and threw her face down onto her bed. “Exquisite little whore, aren’t you?” he breathed, pushing his wife’s dress up around the hips of her shadowy sister. He cast a hungry eye over her bare arse, followed it up with a stroke of his open palm across one of her buttocks. She had slid backwards into him and was scrabbling with her toes as the fine stockings failed to grip the carpet properly. He seized the tops and ripped them clean off her legs. He knelt and branded her skin with hot coils of his breath; “You’re all the same under your skirts,” he said, brushing his lower lip against her thigh and unbuttoning his trousers. “But you are decidedly the most savage,” he added with a firm tug at the unkempt coarseness of her groin, and as she mewled he rose and pressed the come-slicked head of his cock against her entrance. She angrily bucked her hips up toward him and he took the cue, driving into her with a grunt.
She only needed to be fucked and he was not prepared to show affection anyway. He thrust deep inside her, and again, lurching and settling into a forceful rhythm. Her hands gripped the quilt and his own clamped on top, holding her there. Her sudden tautness and panic suggested she’d underestimated the width of him and as a precaution he lay directly over her, ramming his cock in, claiming every inch of her pulsing flesh selfishly before she could pull off.
“You’re the same,” she panted under him, “as all of them - us - we’re all animals in gold.”
Lucius wrenched her head up by her curls and thrust into her so hard her toes left the floor. She was a screeching diagonal line for a moment before he pinned her back down and fucked her with short, shallow plunges. He wasn’t going to last long enough to really hurt her, he realised, though it didn’t matter at this point, he wanted to come now, now, stretched her cunt open painfully by angling his thrusts upwards and rewarded her bruised arse with a slap.
She ripped the silk coverlet with her grasp, cried out weakly with her own orgasm: sweet and dull from years in repose.
He felt the aggravation building outwards from his core, pushed all the way into her as her walls sucked at him, felt a powerful rush of maddening relief and covered her insides with semen, head flung back like a stallion.
Bellatrix crawled away almost immediately. Lucius’s cock slithered gracelessly from her, empty, limp, dribbling strings of his pureblood ejaculate - the same as anyone else’s to look at, he thought hazily - over the torn skins of the discarded stockings. Bellatrix had turned around and was wiping off the come spattered on her skin with the dress hem.
Lucius eased his tender cock back into his clothing. He fixed his mask as easily as he fixed the room, sliding his wand out and repairing the shattered mirror, Vanishing the errant spurts of cloudy liquid on the sheets, all the while paying more attention to how Bellatrix had now seated herself precariously on the furthermost side of her bed and was staring out of the window. He was unsure whether she was regretting what she’d succumbed to, or was - more likely, if he knew her at all - burning with secret triumph.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t meddle with things again, Bellatrix,” he said firmly.
She continued to watch the trees.
“Or I shall have to confiscate your wand and... force you to earn it back.”
The thick preoccupation around her dissolved with the look she tossed over her shoulder. A quick smirk twisted her face. “The light is right, for now,” she said. “It showed what dogs we are.”
Lucius frowned and turned his back on her, walking to the door. The letters downstairs suddenly became of unbearable importance.
“When it goes wrong again, Lucius -” she licked her lips, shuffled in the charlatan dress hiding her wasted body -“I’ll let you know.”
He paused briefly. “Make sure you do,” he warned smoothly.
She grinned around yellow teeth, poniarding him with her grotesque waxen blankness. As he strode out and descended rapidly back down into the stuffy drawing room, her splenetic laughter trickled down the stairs and lay in wait outside the slammed door, knowing that in the immaculate, expensively-furnished space, the light was suddenly all wrong.