FIC: Shared (NC-17)
Title: Shared
Pairings: Rodolphus/Narcissa, Rodolphus/Bellatrix, Narcissa/Rodolphus/Bellatrix
Word Count: 2357
Rating: NC-17
Warnings dub-con, bondage, femmeslash in a threesome
Notes: Written for sise5 for the hpde_smutathon.
I.
"Are you quite sure?" The question is delivered in the same dulcet tone as everything she says, with the same placid smile gracing her pale lips. "It would be no trouble."
Rodolphus can't help but smile at his sister-in-law's sweet insistence. There isn't an ounce of real concern in her voice; she's made the call because she feels she should. "I assure you, Mrs Malfoy," he says, bending a gallant kiss over her knuckles, "my own house elves are perfectly capable of preparing meals for me without Bellatrix's guidance." 'After all,' he muses, 'it isn't as though Bellatrix gives them much instruction even when she's here.' "You hardly need to worry that I will starve while my lovely wife is in Paris."
"It would be remiss of me not to have offered," Narcissa replies. "I didn't mean to cast aspersions on the quality of your help." She starts to turn, to pick up her reticule, then pauses, raising her spring-blue eyes to him. "The invitation stands, Mr Lestrange, if you do decide you would like dinner or-" Something flickers in the sky-coloured pools, a cloud Rodolphus doesn't think he's ever seen in them before. "Company." She smiles again, as she does turn, lifting the purse-strings in dainty fingers. "You're usually out with her, I know. Lucius is gone so often. I thought you might be unaccustomed to being on your own for a few days."
Rodolphus could remind her that he's hardly alone, with Rabastan still in residence, and his own frequent meetings to keep him busy, but he's a little dazed by the tone in her voice. There's a warmth to the vermouth smoothness of it, something other than the polite frost he's always seen in her. "Thank you, Mrs Malfoy." He offers her a small bow, before retrieving her hoary velvet cloak and placing it over her slight shoulders. "Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."
After Narcissa is gone, Rodolphus finds himself in his study with a glass of brandy. The idea of Narcissa as a real person - a real woman -- has never occurred to him. When they were at school, Narcissa had been only Bellatrix's kid sister, a pale echo of the vivacious tempest of a girl who had so entranced him. As an adult, he has never considered her much more than Lucius Malfoy's pretty pet of a wife. He has always heard Bellatrix speak of her with mockery and disdain, and adopts the same attitude out of hand, and yet...
'Bellatrix does speak to her so often,' he realises, thinking of all the afternoons Bellatrix spends at the Malfoy estate or Narcissa at the Lestranges', of all the teatimes he's come into the room to find their heads bent together, of all the whispered conversations at dinner tables. And how many times, after one of those conversations, Bellatrix has made a decision, often of some weight. For the first time, it occurs to Rodolphus to wonder if there might not be more to Mrs Malfoy than a styled and docile society wife.
II.
Sooner or later, every man asks the same question. They don't want to; they resist; they know it sounds foolish. But sooner or later, curiosity gets the better of every single member of the male species.
When he asks his wife if she's ever been with a woman, her only response is her usual throaty laughter.
III.
Narcissa barely has time to gasp before Rodolphus has one of her wrists at the crossbeam of her bed. "M-My husband," she protests, not bothering to fight, not even trying to kick or scratch. She knows he is too strong, and herself too frail. Even so, he grips hard, squeezing her fragile bones, bruising the nearly translucent skin, so used to having to resort to excessive force. The twining rope snakes around her flesh and secures her right arm to the wooden beam.
"Your husband," Rodolphus says with an amused smirk, "is in Greece until Saturday. So don't bother crying out for him."
Her lips part in shock, or something else, but no further sound escapes her as he binds her other wrist.
When he runs his wand down the front of her nightgown, murmuring a spell and parting the fabric in the whisper, she doesn't struggle, doesn't even writhe, but she shivers. The tremble of her tiny frame reminds him just how much she is unlike her sister, and the thought is encouraging.
The skin, though - that is like Bellatrix's - smooth as the silk he peels off of it, pale as shining moonlight. At his touch, she quivers, pressing back against the bed, not arching against him. But even as she shrinks back, her legs slide open slightly, the protective tension beginning to fade.
Warmth blossoms in her with his ministrations, spring beneath the frost, and he is able to bring a thaw upon her. She comes with her legs pressed against his, her arms tugging desperately against their bonds, and her sweet voice in a half-choked cry.
IV.
Manchester, he considers, is a wretched city.
Even worse than London, even more tainted with the pollution of all things Muggle, even more deeply entrenched with that world. No respectable wizards live here anymore, and few enough Mudbloods are even bred in the region. Rodolphus' personal suspicion is that something in the air poisons any magical ability.
Which is why the Ministry considered it the perfect place to hide their latest threatened darling.
What makes the blasted city even worse is the convoluted maze of streets and alleyways. Rodolphus grits his teeth as he and Bellatrix blast their way through another dead end. He's used to London by now, and so is less than thrilled to be pounding blindly through the tangled web of Manchester with Aurors in hot pursuit.
Hot, but hardly effective. Bellatrix and Rodolphus flatten themselves against the wall of an alley, resisting the burning urge to gasp for air until the small squadron of grey-tuniced Aurors have passed. After their harried footsteps fade, leaving only the music of mechanical engines, Bellatrix draws a long, deep breath, and laughs. "Obviously not using my cousin to track our scent," she murmurs, closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall.
Rodolphus' blood is thrumming in his veins, running hot from the excitement of the evening, the thrill of hunt-and-chase, the glory of a narrow escape. He gives a half-second's thought to how long they have before they're meant to meet Travers and debrief, then he snakes an arm around Bellatrix's waist and hauls her to him, crushing her mouth to his in a bruising kiss. She grips eagerly at his shoulders, fingernails pressing creases into the fabric of his robes.
No delay, no finesse here, only raw need and unrestrained fervor. Robes are drawn up and pulled open only as far as necessary, and Rodolphus does not need to check to know he will find her wet and ready, eager for him. He slams her back against the wall, and her legs automatically lock around his waist, his strong arms supporting her thighs, fingers clenching into her buttocks.
Her skin scrapes against the rough brick with each of his powerful thrusts, and her fingernails score matching marks on his back. Their mouths meet ferociously, and tear away just as quickly, to nip at throats and ears.
Bellatrix's cunt clenches and shudders, and a red blast illuminates the other end of the alleyway just as Rodolphus spills himself into her.
V.
To her credit, Narcissa never blushes. Certainly no one would ever guess she kept a secret locked behind that perfect, placid façade, could never see embers burning deep beneath the cool porcelain of her face. Neither longing nor humiliation so much as creases her features as she watches the Lestranges dancing in her ballroom. It's the Malfoys' winter ball, but they steal attention; they always do. Narcissa has always excused that Bellatrix simply can't help commanding all eyes on her.
Inwardly, she smiles, thinking that she now understands the captivation Rodolphus compels. Now, even from across the room, she can feel the heat that simmers so close to his skin - not the flaming aura Bellatrix projects, but a blaze far more controlled, more concentrated.
She wonders if his other lovers, his past lovers - for surely there are many among the guests - can feel it, too, the pulse-quickening warmth a hundred feet away.
VI.
Her hair slides like silk ribbons between his fingers, and water pools in the corners of her eyes as he jerks her head back. "Mr Lestrange, please..." she says, that sweet voice turned hoarse with the effort of choking back tears.
His thumb brushes over her lower lip, and he feels her tremble as she draws a breath. For all the tension in his fingers, his voice remains as warm, as gentlemanly as ever. "What did I say, Narcissa?"
Her dewed eyelashes dusk the bright blue. "Rodolphus. Please."
VII.
Rodolphus freezes when the door opens.
His dark eyes meet their mirror across the room, and for a moment, the air hangs heavy with his concern that Bellatrix will fly into one of her rages. The last paramour she caught him with still hasn't fully recovered. The silence is broken only by Narcissa, mewling, not understanding why his fingers stopped their skillful exploration until she turns her head and sees her sister, framed by the pale amber torchlight in the doorway. Rodolphus is expecting - he doesn't know what to expect. Hysteria, or terror, or tears. Certainly not the small, half-shy smile sliding over her features.
Bellatrix steps forward, closing the door behind her, and returning the room to the glow of moon and candles. She reaches within her robes and withdraws her wand; with the slightest gesture, the wicks burn brighter. Narcissa turns her head away from the light that illuminates the flush that dusts her cheeks and forehead. Rodolphus watches as Bellatrix sets her wand on the nightstand, then slides her hands to the fastenings of her robes, unhooking the jet clasps and letting the fabric slither over her curves. Nothing about her shocks him anymore, not even this, but that doesn't make him any less entranced, any less fascinated when she eases onto the bed, stroking her fingers over his, then guiding them to a position that makes Narcissa jerk suddenly, then shiver, purring with pleasure.
Bellatrix instructs wordlessly, bringing Rodolphus to play her sister like the finest harp, and producing sweeter music in Narcissa's whimpers and moans. All the while, she torments and teases, her hands drifting between them with maddening caprice, stroking the length of his shaft, then tracing circles around Narcissa's peaked nipples, then dragging red lines across his back with her fingernails.
A wicked spark flashing in the dark eyes lets Rodolphus know his wife has thought of something she wants to try. He moves aside to let her pull Narcissa up, to her knees. Bellatrix reaches for her wand again, and conjures a thin violet rope of silken threads. She brings both of her sister's hands up, placing them on either side of one of the bed's wooden posts, and binds them tightly. Rodolphus hears Narcissa whimper as Bellatrix jerks the cord too tight, and his cock twitches at the plaintive note.
Bellatrix's hands rove over Narcissa's body, first cupping the breasts that are thrust against the bedpost, then slide around to the back, stroking the gentle curve of her ribcage, the narrow of her waist, the swell of her hips and rear. She urges the cream-white thighs apart, then flicks her husband a meaningful look.
Rodolphus doesn't need to be instructed as to its meaning. His hands grip at her waist; she's trembling again, and he smiles to feel the tremor of her flesh beneath his touch. He enters her from behind, guiding himself to plunge deep within her cunt, tensing at the intense heat and friction there. Narcissa gasps, her shoulders drawing together, but when she lets her breath out, it is to whisper her sister's name.
Rodolphus growls, thrusting harder and higher up into her, but Bellatrix laughs, her hand skimming over Narcissa's stomach. "What, Cissy?" she drawls. "Tell us what it is you want, lovely."
"Please, Bella," she murmurs, her head dropping between her upraised arms. "Please. You know."
"Oh, but I think we need to hear it," Rodolphus intones. Narcissa doesn't know whether her next shiver is from his cock dragging over the most sensitive spot inside her or just from his voice.
Bellatrix's fingers play lightly at the creases of her thighs, and Narcissa, feeling a hot flush creeping onto her cheeks, wishes she would press higher, to the needfully throbbing pearl hidden beneath the dusting of blonde curls. "Please... Bellatrix... Rodolphus... I need-" She gasps sharply as Rodolphus slowly withdraws nearly entirely, then pounds swiftly in again. "I need release... please..."
They both laugh, a chilling harmony, and Bellatrix's skillful fingers obligingly find Narcissa's clit, stroking slow circles around it, pressing and coaxing and teasing. Narcissa's breath grows shallow, uneven, her arms trembling, her chest heaving with the effort of drawing in air. No sooner does she press her hips back to meet Rodolphus' thrusts then she wants to press forward, against her sister's hand. The violet cords are rubbing red circles around her wrists, chafing each time she writhes back and forth. The onslaught of pleasuring sensations builds too greatly; she shakes her head fervently, ready to beg them to stop, just to put an end to this too-sweet torture.
Over her shoulder, Rodolphus' eyes meet Bellatrix's. She nods; he smiles.
Rodolphus buries himself to the hilt, and Bellatrix's fingers twist around Narcissa's clit. She screams, her back rigid, fingernails scraping at the lacquered wood of the post.
After she rides the force of climax out, Rodolphus pulls out of her and falls back on the bed. Bellatrix strokes her cheek gently, pushing a sweat-damp lock of pale hair back behind her ear, before reaching up to release her bonds. Narcissa crumples in an exhausted heap, but finds the strength, somehow, to reach up and press her sister's hand.
Pairings: Rodolphus/Narcissa, Rodolphus/Bellatrix, Narcissa/Rodolphus/Bellatrix
Word Count: 2357
Rating: NC-17
Warnings dub-con, bondage, femmeslash in a threesome
Notes: Written for sise5 for the hpde_smutathon.
I.
"Are you quite sure?" The question is delivered in the same dulcet tone as everything she says, with the same placid smile gracing her pale lips. "It would be no trouble."
Rodolphus can't help but smile at his sister-in-law's sweet insistence. There isn't an ounce of real concern in her voice; she's made the call because she feels she should. "I assure you, Mrs Malfoy," he says, bending a gallant kiss over her knuckles, "my own house elves are perfectly capable of preparing meals for me without Bellatrix's guidance." 'After all,' he muses, 'it isn't as though Bellatrix gives them much instruction even when she's here.' "You hardly need to worry that I will starve while my lovely wife is in Paris."
"It would be remiss of me not to have offered," Narcissa replies. "I didn't mean to cast aspersions on the quality of your help." She starts to turn, to pick up her reticule, then pauses, raising her spring-blue eyes to him. "The invitation stands, Mr Lestrange, if you do decide you would like dinner or-" Something flickers in the sky-coloured pools, a cloud Rodolphus doesn't think he's ever seen in them before. "Company." She smiles again, as she does turn, lifting the purse-strings in dainty fingers. "You're usually out with her, I know. Lucius is gone so often. I thought you might be unaccustomed to being on your own for a few days."
Rodolphus could remind her that he's hardly alone, with Rabastan still in residence, and his own frequent meetings to keep him busy, but he's a little dazed by the tone in her voice. There's a warmth to the vermouth smoothness of it, something other than the polite frost he's always seen in her. "Thank you, Mrs Malfoy." He offers her a small bow, before retrieving her hoary velvet cloak and placing it over her slight shoulders. "Your hospitality is greatly appreciated."
After Narcissa is gone, Rodolphus finds himself in his study with a glass of brandy. The idea of Narcissa as a real person - a real woman -- has never occurred to him. When they were at school, Narcissa had been only Bellatrix's kid sister, a pale echo of the vivacious tempest of a girl who had so entranced him. As an adult, he has never considered her much more than Lucius Malfoy's pretty pet of a wife. He has always heard Bellatrix speak of her with mockery and disdain, and adopts the same attitude out of hand, and yet...
'Bellatrix does speak to her so often,' he realises, thinking of all the afternoons Bellatrix spends at the Malfoy estate or Narcissa at the Lestranges', of all the teatimes he's come into the room to find their heads bent together, of all the whispered conversations at dinner tables. And how many times, after one of those conversations, Bellatrix has made a decision, often of some weight. For the first time, it occurs to Rodolphus to wonder if there might not be more to Mrs Malfoy than a styled and docile society wife.
II.
Sooner or later, every man asks the same question. They don't want to; they resist; they know it sounds foolish. But sooner or later, curiosity gets the better of every single member of the male species.
When he asks his wife if she's ever been with a woman, her only response is her usual throaty laughter.
III.
Narcissa barely has time to gasp before Rodolphus has one of her wrists at the crossbeam of her bed. "M-My husband," she protests, not bothering to fight, not even trying to kick or scratch. She knows he is too strong, and herself too frail. Even so, he grips hard, squeezing her fragile bones, bruising the nearly translucent skin, so used to having to resort to excessive force. The twining rope snakes around her flesh and secures her right arm to the wooden beam.
"Your husband," Rodolphus says with an amused smirk, "is in Greece until Saturday. So don't bother crying out for him."
Her lips part in shock, or something else, but no further sound escapes her as he binds her other wrist.
When he runs his wand down the front of her nightgown, murmuring a spell and parting the fabric in the whisper, she doesn't struggle, doesn't even writhe, but she shivers. The tremble of her tiny frame reminds him just how much she is unlike her sister, and the thought is encouraging.
The skin, though - that is like Bellatrix's - smooth as the silk he peels off of it, pale as shining moonlight. At his touch, she quivers, pressing back against the bed, not arching against him. But even as she shrinks back, her legs slide open slightly, the protective tension beginning to fade.
Warmth blossoms in her with his ministrations, spring beneath the frost, and he is able to bring a thaw upon her. She comes with her legs pressed against his, her arms tugging desperately against their bonds, and her sweet voice in a half-choked cry.
IV.
Manchester, he considers, is a wretched city.
Even worse than London, even more tainted with the pollution of all things Muggle, even more deeply entrenched with that world. No respectable wizards live here anymore, and few enough Mudbloods are even bred in the region. Rodolphus' personal suspicion is that something in the air poisons any magical ability.
Which is why the Ministry considered it the perfect place to hide their latest threatened darling.
What makes the blasted city even worse is the convoluted maze of streets and alleyways. Rodolphus grits his teeth as he and Bellatrix blast their way through another dead end. He's used to London by now, and so is less than thrilled to be pounding blindly through the tangled web of Manchester with Aurors in hot pursuit.
Hot, but hardly effective. Bellatrix and Rodolphus flatten themselves against the wall of an alley, resisting the burning urge to gasp for air until the small squadron of grey-tuniced Aurors have passed. After their harried footsteps fade, leaving only the music of mechanical engines, Bellatrix draws a long, deep breath, and laughs. "Obviously not using my cousin to track our scent," she murmurs, closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall.
Rodolphus' blood is thrumming in his veins, running hot from the excitement of the evening, the thrill of hunt-and-chase, the glory of a narrow escape. He gives a half-second's thought to how long they have before they're meant to meet Travers and debrief, then he snakes an arm around Bellatrix's waist and hauls her to him, crushing her mouth to his in a bruising kiss. She grips eagerly at his shoulders, fingernails pressing creases into the fabric of his robes.
No delay, no finesse here, only raw need and unrestrained fervor. Robes are drawn up and pulled open only as far as necessary, and Rodolphus does not need to check to know he will find her wet and ready, eager for him. He slams her back against the wall, and her legs automatically lock around his waist, his strong arms supporting her thighs, fingers clenching into her buttocks.
Her skin scrapes against the rough brick with each of his powerful thrusts, and her fingernails score matching marks on his back. Their mouths meet ferociously, and tear away just as quickly, to nip at throats and ears.
Bellatrix's cunt clenches and shudders, and a red blast illuminates the other end of the alleyway just as Rodolphus spills himself into her.
V.
To her credit, Narcissa never blushes. Certainly no one would ever guess she kept a secret locked behind that perfect, placid façade, could never see embers burning deep beneath the cool porcelain of her face. Neither longing nor humiliation so much as creases her features as she watches the Lestranges dancing in her ballroom. It's the Malfoys' winter ball, but they steal attention; they always do. Narcissa has always excused that Bellatrix simply can't help commanding all eyes on her.
Inwardly, she smiles, thinking that she now understands the captivation Rodolphus compels. Now, even from across the room, she can feel the heat that simmers so close to his skin - not the flaming aura Bellatrix projects, but a blaze far more controlled, more concentrated.
She wonders if his other lovers, his past lovers - for surely there are many among the guests - can feel it, too, the pulse-quickening warmth a hundred feet away.
VI.
Her hair slides like silk ribbons between his fingers, and water pools in the corners of her eyes as he jerks her head back. "Mr Lestrange, please..." she says, that sweet voice turned hoarse with the effort of choking back tears.
His thumb brushes over her lower lip, and he feels her tremble as she draws a breath. For all the tension in his fingers, his voice remains as warm, as gentlemanly as ever. "What did I say, Narcissa?"
Her dewed eyelashes dusk the bright blue. "Rodolphus. Please."
VII.
Rodolphus freezes when the door opens.
His dark eyes meet their mirror across the room, and for a moment, the air hangs heavy with his concern that Bellatrix will fly into one of her rages. The last paramour she caught him with still hasn't fully recovered. The silence is broken only by Narcissa, mewling, not understanding why his fingers stopped their skillful exploration until she turns her head and sees her sister, framed by the pale amber torchlight in the doorway. Rodolphus is expecting - he doesn't know what to expect. Hysteria, or terror, or tears. Certainly not the small, half-shy smile sliding over her features.
Bellatrix steps forward, closing the door behind her, and returning the room to the glow of moon and candles. She reaches within her robes and withdraws her wand; with the slightest gesture, the wicks burn brighter. Narcissa turns her head away from the light that illuminates the flush that dusts her cheeks and forehead. Rodolphus watches as Bellatrix sets her wand on the nightstand, then slides her hands to the fastenings of her robes, unhooking the jet clasps and letting the fabric slither over her curves. Nothing about her shocks him anymore, not even this, but that doesn't make him any less entranced, any less fascinated when she eases onto the bed, stroking her fingers over his, then guiding them to a position that makes Narcissa jerk suddenly, then shiver, purring with pleasure.
Bellatrix instructs wordlessly, bringing Rodolphus to play her sister like the finest harp, and producing sweeter music in Narcissa's whimpers and moans. All the while, she torments and teases, her hands drifting between them with maddening caprice, stroking the length of his shaft, then tracing circles around Narcissa's peaked nipples, then dragging red lines across his back with her fingernails.
A wicked spark flashing in the dark eyes lets Rodolphus know his wife has thought of something she wants to try. He moves aside to let her pull Narcissa up, to her knees. Bellatrix reaches for her wand again, and conjures a thin violet rope of silken threads. She brings both of her sister's hands up, placing them on either side of one of the bed's wooden posts, and binds them tightly. Rodolphus hears Narcissa whimper as Bellatrix jerks the cord too tight, and his cock twitches at the plaintive note.
Bellatrix's hands rove over Narcissa's body, first cupping the breasts that are thrust against the bedpost, then slide around to the back, stroking the gentle curve of her ribcage, the narrow of her waist, the swell of her hips and rear. She urges the cream-white thighs apart, then flicks her husband a meaningful look.
Rodolphus doesn't need to be instructed as to its meaning. His hands grip at her waist; she's trembling again, and he smiles to feel the tremor of her flesh beneath his touch. He enters her from behind, guiding himself to plunge deep within her cunt, tensing at the intense heat and friction there. Narcissa gasps, her shoulders drawing together, but when she lets her breath out, it is to whisper her sister's name.
Rodolphus growls, thrusting harder and higher up into her, but Bellatrix laughs, her hand skimming over Narcissa's stomach. "What, Cissy?" she drawls. "Tell us what it is you want, lovely."
"Please, Bella," she murmurs, her head dropping between her upraised arms. "Please. You know."
"Oh, but I think we need to hear it," Rodolphus intones. Narcissa doesn't know whether her next shiver is from his cock dragging over the most sensitive spot inside her or just from his voice.
Bellatrix's fingers play lightly at the creases of her thighs, and Narcissa, feeling a hot flush creeping onto her cheeks, wishes she would press higher, to the needfully throbbing pearl hidden beneath the dusting of blonde curls. "Please... Bellatrix... Rodolphus... I need-" She gasps sharply as Rodolphus slowly withdraws nearly entirely, then pounds swiftly in again. "I need release... please..."
They both laugh, a chilling harmony, and Bellatrix's skillful fingers obligingly find Narcissa's clit, stroking slow circles around it, pressing and coaxing and teasing. Narcissa's breath grows shallow, uneven, her arms trembling, her chest heaving with the effort of drawing in air. No sooner does she press her hips back to meet Rodolphus' thrusts then she wants to press forward, against her sister's hand. The violet cords are rubbing red circles around her wrists, chafing each time she writhes back and forth. The onslaught of pleasuring sensations builds too greatly; she shakes her head fervently, ready to beg them to stop, just to put an end to this too-sweet torture.
Over her shoulder, Rodolphus' eyes meet Bellatrix's. She nods; he smiles.
Rodolphus buries himself to the hilt, and Bellatrix's fingers twist around Narcissa's clit. She screams, her back rigid, fingernails scraping at the lacquered wood of the post.
After she rides the force of climax out, Rodolphus pulls out of her and falls back on the bed. Bellatrix strokes her cheek gently, pushing a sweat-damp lock of pale hair back behind her ear, before reaching up to release her bonds. Narcissa crumples in an exhausted heap, but finds the strength, somehow, to reach up and press her sister's hand.