different ways to hurt
Title: A Last Lost Echo
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: explicit content, sex and violence
Character, Pairing: Bellatrix, Bellatrix/Regulus
Disclaimer: The characters are JK Rowling’s.
Warning: Bellatrix and Regulus are cousins.
Notes: Prompt 003, ‘Ends’, for 100_women Fanfic Challenge
A Last Lost Echo
He knows she will be waiting for him. It makes it easier. He wants to see her, at the end; he wants to stare into her eyes, which absorb all light and heat into their darkness.
Her bed was by the fire that burned all night throughout the winter, and its light created strange undulating shadows in the room as they undressed. His back was to her and she told him, "Don't move." She liked to see his broad shoulders and thick arms, the proof of his strength. If they fought using fists as their weapons, rather than wands, he would win, break her. He had the power to make her submit, if only he would use it. She trailed her fingers down the ridges of his spine, admiring the proud profile of his face when he turned his head to follow her touch. She would never love him, but she owned him and that was better. She turned him around to face her and he stared dumbly at her body as though seeing it for the first time. She followed his gaze. "My nipples are hard because I want you." He took it for the invitation it was, cupped her breasts in his hands and bent down to drop kisses across their slopes. When she had enough, she asked, "Don't you want to know if I'm wet for you?" His hand lingered as it crossed the soft rise of her belly and he gasped as he slipped a finger between her slick lips, as though she were hot enough to burn him. She brought her hand down to meet his own, share the pleasure of her flush skin. "Taste me," she said, raising her finger to his mouth. He suckled at her fingertip as though it were her tit, tender and fragile as a child and as easily destroyed. "Don't you want to feel me on the inside?" She shuddered as he pressed his fingers up into her body. "Tell me you hate me," she whispered.
"Don't," he whispered back. "I don’t want that."
"But you’ll give it to me because I do."
"No."
"Look at me," she said, her voice strained, as his fingers continued their stroke. He obeyed. "Hurt me." He withdrew from her body and brought his hand, sticky with her come, to rest roughly on her ass, fingers digging into her like claws as he dragged her flush to him. With his other hand he lifted her heavy breast, gave a hard twist to her nipple, making her wince. It was not nearly enough. "Hate me," she ordered. She walked backwards towards the bed and he followed, shoving her down, hovering over her. He brought his hand to her throat and pressed tentatively. Why could he not understand that her craving was for brutality, a stranglehold entirely free of guilt? She was aching as their legs tangled together, as his cock brushed against her thighs, aching for him to use more force, to choke her. "More," she rasped. More than anything else, what she wanted was for him to make her fight for each breath as he fucked her. Instead, he took his hand away, eyes begging her approval. "Do anything you want with me, anything." She saw the apprehension in his eyes. "You can kill me."
"I could never."
“Coward,” she sneered, and yet she was surprised to realize she was not entirely disappointed by his refusal. She spread her legs wide for him, hands drifting down his body to clutch at his hips as he thrust forward. He had no idea how vulnerable and foolish he seemed to her. She could read all he felt in his face, he had never been able to lie to her. Still, she tilted her hips up to him. Over and over again she tried to swallow him deeper inside, and each time she coaxed a more beautiful agony to bloom across his face. She knew she would not keep him, and she thought of those who might one day enjoy him, and how he would never want them as much as he had wanted her. He was hers, he would always be hers. When she had first made him hers, he had never even had so much as a kiss. She had taught him everything. "You will never love anyone else," she hissed, because she wanted him to understand that his devotion to her was a curse. She spoke the indisputable truth and stripped him bare with it. He had to come, because having pledged himself to her, there was nothing left but the fall. He lay still for a long moment, heavy on top of her, and her hand rested against the sweat-slick flesh at the small of his back. When his breathing slowed, he moved down her body. As his head bowed to her pussy, she once again raised her hips to him. Her fingers tangled in his hair and her skin's kinship with him should not have made her feel so much. Could the beard of any other cheek scrape as roughly against her thighs, could the tip of any other tongue be as soft as it relentlessly traced the shaft of her clit? When she came, for a moment she thought she felt her eyes water, but it passed, it always did. She pressed her hand to her chest, waited for her heart to slow. She could feel him watching her and she kept her eyes closed, tried to keep her face blank, so that she could remain unknowable, apart. What was it, then? What impulse was lurking inside her, so strong that it acted without her permission, made her raise her hands to his face and press her finger against the scar above his upper lip? When Sirius was ten, he was angry at his mother and smashed a whole shelf’s worth of enchanted perfumes and potions which were very precious to her. Hours later, when she had him by the hair, he blamed it on his brother. She had taken one of the glass shards from the broken bottles and deliberately cut Regulus’s face. When the truth came out, their father, with great pride in the duplicity, proclaimed Sirius a 'Real Black'. His mother had healed all scars but the one. Bellatrix could not look at him when she said, "I hate them for giving you this."
"I would think you liked to see the proof of a wound's infliction," Regulus said.
"Your blood is mine to spill," she replied, wrapping both arms around him, both legs, clinging ferociously, "no one else’s."
He did not argue.
"Bella. Bellatrix. Bella." He is calling for her.
She moves silently through the shadows, towards his voice. When she finds him, she says, "I knew you would come to me. I’ve been waiting all today, my cousin, all yesterday, I have been waiting." She holds open her arms and he falls into them. She opens her lips and shares her breath with him. He returns her kisses and his face is wet. He is all in the world that makes her wish she could cry. She licks his cheeks, brings his tears inside her and makes them hers, accepts the burden of sorrow.
She stares into his eyes, the pupils so dilated that she feels she can look all the way down them, all the way inside him, to read every last word etched on his heart. Yes, once she believed she knew him. She was happy then, though she did not recognize it. She twines her legs around him, clenches all her flesh around his cock, desperate now, because she knows he is lost to her, has always been lost to her. Once she pretended that she completely possessed him, that his will was hers. Now she sees that his life is his own and always has been. He loved her wholly and yet without betraying himself. His fingers are circling her clit, with each cycle bringing her closer and closer to breaking. She moans and her eyes fall shut as she comes, and coming is pain, because it isolates her in her own body, takes her away from him. If she is breaking, then they are breaking apart. As the tremors of her body subside, she opens her eyes again and here he is. Here are his eyes, their eyes, locked on each other, and this is the most wanted part, just this, to see him and be seen in return. He continues to rock, rock against her and perhaps it can go on, perhaps if she keeps her eyes open, never blinks again, if she holds her breath for the rest of time, perhaps she can make everything stop, can keep this forever. But in the moment she wishes it, as though the universe exists to spite her, his hips still and he comes. The reprieve has ended, it’s over, it’s all over and she trembles as she holds him.
"Don’t be afraid," she tells him, once she can trust her voice, her hands, to remain steady. "I promise that it will not hurt." Her robes are beside her, within reach, and she takes the vial from her pocket. His eyes open and he pushes himself up to a sitting position. She unscrews the cap and brings the poison to his lips. His hand comes up and replaces her own. He tilts his head back; he willingly swallows the draught. She draws his face to her chest and presses her lips against his hair. "Good boy. It will only be a moment."
When he collapses against her, his body is heavy and still hot. For one breath, for two, her arms cradle him and she is comforted by a traitorous hope, the hope that there is a Lord beyond her Dark Lord, a power that can reunite what he has severed.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: explicit content, sex and violence
Character, Pairing: Bellatrix, Bellatrix/Regulus
Disclaimer: The characters are JK Rowling’s.
Warning: Bellatrix and Regulus are cousins.
Notes: Prompt 003, ‘Ends’, for 100_women Fanfic Challenge
A Last Lost Echo
He knows she will be waiting for him. It makes it easier. He wants to see her, at the end; he wants to stare into her eyes, which absorb all light and heat into their darkness.
Her bed was by the fire that burned all night throughout the winter, and its light created strange undulating shadows in the room as they undressed. His back was to her and she told him, "Don't move." She liked to see his broad shoulders and thick arms, the proof of his strength. If they fought using fists as their weapons, rather than wands, he would win, break her. He had the power to make her submit, if only he would use it. She trailed her fingers down the ridges of his spine, admiring the proud profile of his face when he turned his head to follow her touch. She would never love him, but she owned him and that was better. She turned him around to face her and he stared dumbly at her body as though seeing it for the first time. She followed his gaze. "My nipples are hard because I want you." He took it for the invitation it was, cupped her breasts in his hands and bent down to drop kisses across their slopes. When she had enough, she asked, "Don't you want to know if I'm wet for you?" His hand lingered as it crossed the soft rise of her belly and he gasped as he slipped a finger between her slick lips, as though she were hot enough to burn him. She brought her hand down to meet his own, share the pleasure of her flush skin. "Taste me," she said, raising her finger to his mouth. He suckled at her fingertip as though it were her tit, tender and fragile as a child and as easily destroyed. "Don't you want to feel me on the inside?" She shuddered as he pressed his fingers up into her body. "Tell me you hate me," she whispered.
"Don't," he whispered back. "I don’t want that."
"But you’ll give it to me because I do."
"No."
"Look at me," she said, her voice strained, as his fingers continued their stroke. He obeyed. "Hurt me." He withdrew from her body and brought his hand, sticky with her come, to rest roughly on her ass, fingers digging into her like claws as he dragged her flush to him. With his other hand he lifted her heavy breast, gave a hard twist to her nipple, making her wince. It was not nearly enough. "Hate me," she ordered. She walked backwards towards the bed and he followed, shoving her down, hovering over her. He brought his hand to her throat and pressed tentatively. Why could he not understand that her craving was for brutality, a stranglehold entirely free of guilt? She was aching as their legs tangled together, as his cock brushed against her thighs, aching for him to use more force, to choke her. "More," she rasped. More than anything else, what she wanted was for him to make her fight for each breath as he fucked her. Instead, he took his hand away, eyes begging her approval. "Do anything you want with me, anything." She saw the apprehension in his eyes. "You can kill me."
"I could never."
“Coward,” she sneered, and yet she was surprised to realize she was not entirely disappointed by his refusal. She spread her legs wide for him, hands drifting down his body to clutch at his hips as he thrust forward. He had no idea how vulnerable and foolish he seemed to her. She could read all he felt in his face, he had never been able to lie to her. Still, she tilted her hips up to him. Over and over again she tried to swallow him deeper inside, and each time she coaxed a more beautiful agony to bloom across his face. She knew she would not keep him, and she thought of those who might one day enjoy him, and how he would never want them as much as he had wanted her. He was hers, he would always be hers. When she had first made him hers, he had never even had so much as a kiss. She had taught him everything. "You will never love anyone else," she hissed, because she wanted him to understand that his devotion to her was a curse. She spoke the indisputable truth and stripped him bare with it. He had to come, because having pledged himself to her, there was nothing left but the fall. He lay still for a long moment, heavy on top of her, and her hand rested against the sweat-slick flesh at the small of his back. When his breathing slowed, he moved down her body. As his head bowed to her pussy, she once again raised her hips to him. Her fingers tangled in his hair and her skin's kinship with him should not have made her feel so much. Could the beard of any other cheek scrape as roughly against her thighs, could the tip of any other tongue be as soft as it relentlessly traced the shaft of her clit? When she came, for a moment she thought she felt her eyes water, but it passed, it always did. She pressed her hand to her chest, waited for her heart to slow. She could feel him watching her and she kept her eyes closed, tried to keep her face blank, so that she could remain unknowable, apart. What was it, then? What impulse was lurking inside her, so strong that it acted without her permission, made her raise her hands to his face and press her finger against the scar above his upper lip? When Sirius was ten, he was angry at his mother and smashed a whole shelf’s worth of enchanted perfumes and potions which were very precious to her. Hours later, when she had him by the hair, he blamed it on his brother. She had taken one of the glass shards from the broken bottles and deliberately cut Regulus’s face. When the truth came out, their father, with great pride in the duplicity, proclaimed Sirius a 'Real Black'. His mother had healed all scars but the one. Bellatrix could not look at him when she said, "I hate them for giving you this."
"I would think you liked to see the proof of a wound's infliction," Regulus said.
"Your blood is mine to spill," she replied, wrapping both arms around him, both legs, clinging ferociously, "no one else’s."
He did not argue.
"Bella. Bellatrix. Bella." He is calling for her.
She moves silently through the shadows, towards his voice. When she finds him, she says, "I knew you would come to me. I’ve been waiting all today, my cousin, all yesterday, I have been waiting." She holds open her arms and he falls into them. She opens her lips and shares her breath with him. He returns her kisses and his face is wet. He is all in the world that makes her wish she could cry. She licks his cheeks, brings his tears inside her and makes them hers, accepts the burden of sorrow.
She stares into his eyes, the pupils so dilated that she feels she can look all the way down them, all the way inside him, to read every last word etched on his heart. Yes, once she believed she knew him. She was happy then, though she did not recognize it. She twines her legs around him, clenches all her flesh around his cock, desperate now, because she knows he is lost to her, has always been lost to her. Once she pretended that she completely possessed him, that his will was hers. Now she sees that his life is his own and always has been. He loved her wholly and yet without betraying himself. His fingers are circling her clit, with each cycle bringing her closer and closer to breaking. She moans and her eyes fall shut as she comes, and coming is pain, because it isolates her in her own body, takes her away from him. If she is breaking, then they are breaking apart. As the tremors of her body subside, she opens her eyes again and here he is. Here are his eyes, their eyes, locked on each other, and this is the most wanted part, just this, to see him and be seen in return. He continues to rock, rock against her and perhaps it can go on, perhaps if she keeps her eyes open, never blinks again, if she holds her breath for the rest of time, perhaps she can make everything stop, can keep this forever. But in the moment she wishes it, as though the universe exists to spite her, his hips still and he comes. The reprieve has ended, it’s over, it’s all over and she trembles as she holds him.
"Don’t be afraid," she tells him, once she can trust her voice, her hands, to remain steady. "I promise that it will not hurt." Her robes are beside her, within reach, and she takes the vial from her pocket. His eyes open and he pushes himself up to a sitting position. She unscrews the cap and brings the poison to his lips. His hand comes up and replaces her own. He tilts his head back; he willingly swallows the draught. She draws his face to her chest and presses her lips against his hair. "Good boy. It will only be a moment."
When he collapses against her, his body is heavy and still hot. For one breath, for two, her arms cradle him and she is comforted by a traitorous hope, the hope that there is a Lord beyond her Dark Lord, a power that can reunite what he has severed.