Such Corruptions Out Of Such Sweet Things
"Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions"
Walt Whitman
Narcissa closes her eyes when Lucius makes love to her. He is surprisingly considerate, and she does love him. In the early days of their relationship, she thrilled to the fall of his spun gold hair across her body, the moments when his fair hair and pale skin merged with hers and they truly became one person. Sometimes she still can't tell where she ends and he begins; hair and skin and elegant bones flowing together to form a single perfect body, the culmination of desire.
But she longs for the dark shadow of Bellatrix's hair spilling over her thighs, or forming a curtain around the two of them, shutting out the world. They've touched and kissed and discovered ways to bring incandescent pleasure to each other, fingers and tongues sliding through dark, humid curls, against slick pink flesh aching with need.
She can still taste the mossy, salty tang of Bellatrix on her tongue, her fingers, can recall breathing the air Bella exhaled into her own lungs, the fresh scent of lake water and grass clinging to them as they swam naked, far from the watchful eyes of the family.
Bella never lies to her, never tells her this is what sisters are or do. She knows it's not -- Andromeda doesn't join them, ever, and they prefer it that way. They are two opposing forces – merciless light and ravenous dark -- embodied, and universes explode when they come together.
That didn't change when they married. It will never change, Bella tells her, because it's in their blood and blood is forever.
Narcissa closes her eyes when Lucius makes love to her, imagines Bellatrix fucking her on the grass, and mourns the passing of time, the dilution of her power to set fire to the cosmos, even as she comes.
Bellatrix purrs and writhes as Lucius licks at her clit, skilled tongue and fingers bringing her close to the edge before pulling away, over and over again, a torture her husband has never mastered.
She squints and the world distorts; Lucius's features soften, his hair envelops him in a golden glow. She can imagine he is Narcissa when he lies between her thighs. The power of death in his hands, his wand, his tongue, excites her more than his cock sliding hot and hard into her body, thrusting until she finally comes, world shattering into stars even brighter than her own.
He thinks he has power over her, with his wily politician's smile, but he's hers to command, because he is Narcissa's, and in the end, Narcissa is hers, always and forever. Power is made manifest when their bodies meet, ages of blood and breeding, the oldest magic in the world brought forth in the sweep of her tongue over Narcissa's lips, and Lucius is but a pale shadow of that. He can never wield the fire she and Narcissa kindle together.
Thoughts of Narcissa, along with her faith in her lord, and the momentary joy of taunting Sirius (blood traitor, abomination, failure), comfort her when she is in Azkaban.
Lucius has eyes everywhere. They think he doesn't know what they did, what they do, but he does. (They know he knows. They don't care. They are above such petty concerns. They are Blacks, first and last.) Even when he cannot watch himself, he's seen it often enough to imagine the scene, two women, light and dark, laid out for his pleasure.
Bellatrix will be rapacious after so many years of deprivation, devouring her sister with hands and lips, teeth and tongue. Black hair and gold intermingle on his pillow, the curve of breast and belly so familiar to him, even more so to them, even after so long apart. Kisses that consume instead of caress, the sharp sting of teeth nipping flesh, drawing blood, and the rough clutch of hands leaving bruises to be laved by gentle tongues after the fire is banked at last. The stroke of long, elegant fingers over Bellatrix's lush hips, Narcissa's toned thighs; the soft mewling cries his wife makes as she begs and comes; Bella's soft snarls and smoky laughter as she teases Narcissa, who twists and arches, trapped by Bella's body and her own insatiable desire.
The dementors are gone, but Azkaban still holds a foreboding chill. To warm himself, as he sits in the cell that may have been Bellatrix's, Lucius takes his cock in hand and strokes until he comes, imagining his wife and her sister entangled in his bed.