Title: Ever Be Yours
Word Count: 1476
Summary: Bellatrix pricks herself out for her sister's pleasure.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
When they were children, Andromeda would help them dress up before they performed one of their "little shows," as their mother always called them. Of course, their eldest sister never acted with them. She was too busy directing other things.
At night, it was never their mother's voice in the hall outside of their bedroom wishing their father a sweet "goodnight" with an edge of acidic promise cutting across the drafty air of the corridor. Her voice always stopped his, but Bellatrix knew her father's steps—and for as long as she could remember, they had receded as her big sister's had approached.
Andromeda was their protector—until the Muggle took her away—until she let him touch her.
After the little show their mother insisted they give at the first formal affair that the Black family held in the wake of its disinherited daughter's marriage, Bellatrix and Narcissa knew that they would need to protect themselves. Their father had been so attentive in helping them change.
They took to sharing a bed.
They were young, but together made an intimidating pair. Narcissa was fourteen and colt-like, but far more graceful and languid than any common mare. Bellatrix, sixteen and supple, worried about what matter of "whip" her father might employ to turn them into members of his stable—she knew what he did to the younger maids.
The Blacks kept more creatures than house elves.
Not long after Andromeda left, their father arrived to "tuck them in." Narcissa was so frightened that her skin tightened almost to translucency, and Bellatrix thought the girl might glow as the light of the room passed through her sister's voluminous nightgown of delicate muslin.
Captivated by this angelic sight, Bellatrix fell in love.
She allowed their father to enter the room. She allowed him to pet her head and smooth her hair. She allowed him to take one step too close to her. She allowed him to raise her chin after asking, "May I give you a kiss goodnight?"
Her response surprised the wizard and herself.
Narcissa cried while her father writhed on the floor under Cruciatus and her older sister's bitter promises of with what next she would curse him should he ever again darken their door, but she cast the silencing spell over the room, first. Bellatrix admired her for her pragmatism.
They took to sharing their bodies.
Bellatrix was tentative in her attentions because she had no wish to use Narcissa to ease the burning slide of the desire that had been plaguing her for weeks, ever since Andromeda . . . . She was the protector, now, and she could not allow herself the luxury of filling her sister's sex with her greedy fingers—or something more substantial. Narcissa turned fifteen and rather more dominant, and showed Bellatrix how she desired to be taken.
As her orgasm approached, she crooned her older sister's name as though it were the holiest of incantations through the swollen lips of her whore's mouth.
It was almost enough to convince Bellatrix that the gods were real. Sucking the cries from Narcissa's mouth—her communion with the divine—she knew it was better than anything Rodolphus could provide her in the way of mind-altering potions.
The insistent, unwelcome wizard had promised her that he knew of someone who could make her touch the sky—not to see the gods, but to be as one of them. This was a lie told by a man looking for a wife, Bellatrix knew that, but what his parvenu of a friend wanted in her family's home she did not want to understand.
"Only meet another . . . friend of mine, and I shall rid you of Lucius' presence," Rodolphus promised.
Narcissa overheard. She managed somehow, always, to hide her loveliness in the darkest of corners and hear everything. "It's dangerous, Bella—don't go," she pleaded in a voice almost too-cultured for a seventeen-year-old. Bellatrix felt, for the first time, as if Narcissa's smoothness only emphasized her own rough edges.
Rodolphus had bulges that made her feel feminine and safe.
Bellatrix decided to trust him. Father hated the man, which was reason enough, but her beau's family was beyond reproach—his genealogical chart was deeper than his Gringott's vault, just. Her mother approved of Rodolphus, as well. Perhaps it was prudent to think of her future, she decided—for to secure it meant to secure Narcissa.
Rodolphus understood that. He'd said as much—and he had been able to dodge Bellatrix's attempt to rend his eyes out for his temerity when he did so.
The wizard had earned her respect. She would give him her trust. In exchange for her sister, this seemed only fair—but when she met Lord Voldemort, she realized that she never needed to concern herself with something as trifling as fairness again. She expressed her gratitude toward the man she had consented to marry adequately and frequently—but never in front of her baby sister.
"I am not a baby!" Narcissa shrieked on the day of her wedding as Bellatrix attempted to brush out her hair before dressing it with the veil.
Their mother was convinced that her youngest daughter's "bridal nerves" were the cause of the uncharacteristic outburst, and told the bride-to-be how very proud she was that "one of you will reach the alter a virgin."
"As all proper sacrifices must," Narcissa replied, before bursting into a shrieking fit of laughter.
"Don't take on so, dearest," her lover told her after their mother had fled. "People will think that you're mad."
The silencing charm was forgotten as Narcissa reached smartly for the upper hem of her sister's bustier and wrenched it none-too-gently from her body.
"That hurt," Bella said, smiling slowly and dangerously.
She loved it so when the baby threw a tantrum.
Rodolphus had taught her something that she needed to share with Narcissa, and quickly, while the guests were mingling in unconcerned and disinterested groups in the perfumed lower rooms of the Malfoy estate.
"I don't want him to touch me," Narcissa wailed, suddenly quiescent under the caress of sharp nails trailing almost too lightly across her face to be felt.
"He will touch you, my love, but not before I have taught you how to enjoy him."
With that, Bellatrix led her baby sister through the hallway hidden in the wall that led to her bedroom, and dressed her in the show-clothes that so suited the girl when she was pouting—a striped, green and silver bustier over green knickers, sheer hose, shag-me heels, and a black ribbon for her slender, swan-like neck.
They were to be each other's audience.
Bellatrix didn't waste time with dressing. She didn't want to feel her own skin unless it was pressed against her sister's. The spell was simpler, and, instantly, she was wearing a man's ensemble, more stripes, less exposed flesh. But there was a reason for that.
Narcissa should never be frightened in bed—not without her consent. "Touch my right leg. Draw your hand up it from my knee to . . . oh!" Bellatrix gasped.
Her baby sister purred a soft laugh. "What kind of show is this to be?" she asked before exclaiming and jumping back in . . . alarm.
Finding a cock where a pussy should be, well, that was enough to surprise anyone, even the placid Narcissa Black. While her sister still was Narcissa Black, Bellatrix moved over her sister's body with her own, licking from the dip of the younger witch's navel to the hollow of her throat before thrusting her conjured erection against the dampening satin of her sister's knickers.
"No arrogant coxcomb is going to thrust his prick inside of you before I've been there! Tell me you want me to fuck you, Cissa. Tell me you want me. Tell me, now!"
Narcissa's response surprised her sister and herself.
Bellatrix knew that the blood of the Black Family would never flow from her loins as she walked down the aisle behind her sister toward the circle in which stood the wedding party. She would never be able to give Rodolphus an heir. She rather suspected that her husband had known this when he taught her the spell that had so enthralled her sister.
"Only if you keep it!" Narcissa had hissed.
Of course, Bellatrix had kept it, the cock she could command most easily, the prick with which she had bled her baby sister. It had been a simple decision to make; for when she had eaten her death, she would have no need of children.
Rodolphus had given Bellatrix more than his name.
As she watched her sister bound to another, however, her need for Narcissa burned as a deeper mark upon her soul than the Dark one she carried, and she could not repress a shudder when Lucius touched her lover for the first time. She inhaled a sharp breath, and felt her husband's light hand on her rigid arm.
"Patience, beloved. She will ever be yours."