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Narcissa gifts her kisses. They are bestowed, bequeathed. They are always to be accepted with gratitude. She doesn't just give them away though, she always exacts her pound of flesh in return. In one way or another. But when she captures you in her gaze, drowns you in those icy oceanic eyes of hers, you're ready to snatch your heart from your chest and present it to her on a goblin wrought silver platter if only to see the edges of her lips quirk upward in her own version of a smile.
And then, she will whisper your name as she leans toward you. “Hermione,” she says, and sweet Circe, you want to beg her to say it again, on that same dulcet purr, shot through with desire and locked away darkness, but you know she's gifted you just. Her hair unbound, goldenrod in bloom carrying with it the scent of citrus, fresh and clean. Wavy since she's abandoned the effort to keep it bone straight, falling between the two of you like a curtain that puts you in the mind of an opera house of old. Gilded stage and candle flame, pale faced performers under the smoking foot lights, red roses still with their thorns being thrown as a standing ovation thrums.
Your heart skips a beat in an echo of that applause and you draw back with a soft gasp. Your lashes flutter as you take in the perfection of her alabaster face. Those patrician features, perfect nose, cheek bones like a swallow's wing, the lightest dusting of freckles that a heavy hand of makeup could easily conceal, her mouth – the lower lip plump and wet from her tongue, the top thinner, cut in a perfect cupid's bow. And then you allow yourself to fall into her eyes.
She kisses you and immediately you breathe her in, inhaling her essence at the same moment she spears your mind. You can feel the penetration and it's almost as good as sex, just so when with her. Almost as good as her piercing your core with two nimble fingers and beckoning you to orgasm, almost as good as you doing it to her. But when she's in your mind, it's something different. You can feel what she's feeling, you can feel how much her kissing you means to her and all it does is heighten the sensations of her kissing you. Whatever Legilimency, laced with Imperius she's employing doesn't even feel like an invasion because there is no force behind you giving up your will, you've relinquished it.
And to feel the softness in her lips, contrasted by the firm grip of her hand as she grabs you by the waist to pull you closer, More, sweet girl, she whispers in your mind, I want more, there is no greater feeling.
When Andromeda kisses you, Merlin it's as if a wave of calm floods your veins. She wields her own brand of magic given her heritage, and though she's relearning its potency, it still wrecks the most delicious of havoc. Though she uses it with hesitancy. As if she's asking you your permission even when she doesn't ask. Her gift is one over the emotions. Andromeda can make you want something you actually don't want. That in itself is dangerous. But when you are under her sway, it doesn't feel that way. She knows that. With the hand of a mother, she manages to soothe you, to coax you, to bend you to her will. Oh, wantingly.
So you do. You do so want. Not only does it assuage her Black needs, it caters to your need to be catered to. Like how once she has stripped you naked and she presses her lips to every inch of your body. It's staking claim, yes. But it's also making you feel wanted and that's what you need. Her kisses are always giving you what you want, you need. So as she presses her moistened lips against your flesh, singing silent praises to the suppleness of your body, the beauty you've been denied so long, you can't help but melt beneath it.
And you recognize her beauty too. Her burnt auburn locks against ivory skin, her regal features, the Black blood she wanted for so long to cast aside, brimming to the surface. Peering down at her from beneath halfmast lids as she lavishes affection, you caress her cheek and relish the moment that you can truly be in control. And that's what it's about. She gives you control, and you take it. Not like with her sisters, she gives you this. When Andromeda kisses you, it's you kissing her once she makes the first move.
She leans toward you and hovers there making you quiver under the weight of who she is and what she does for you with a smirk dancing on her lips before you grab a fistful of her hair and bring her down to your lips. You use teeth, moaning into her moan of pleasure, and allow your touch to gentle and stray. Now you're using both hands, cupping her face as you both ride the wave of the kiss, letting it deepen on its own and take from each other what it is the two of you are needing.
“I love you, Hermione,” she says softly because it's what you need to hear from her.
“I love you too, Andromeda,” you murmur back because it's what she needs to hear from you.
Bellatrix's kiss is a tsumani. It is literally disaster that ravages, consumes, drowns and you have no choice but to go with the ebb and flow. She grabs you by the throat, a possessive hold and gentle enough by her standards, but still enough to make you gasp and claw at her hand. Beg her with your eyes to ease up even though the way she eats up your discomfort makes you ache and throb below the waist, makes your middle flood.
God you love the way her lashes flutter as she watches you yield to her and you know that's what she needs. Her desire for control makes you want to give it to her. And part of you feels like even if she wasn't who she was, you would give it to her anyway. The way she sops up your need to be in charge, the way she eviscerates your needing to even to think, it's addictive.
“Pet,” she respires, her voice all throaty and sultry and just everything as she slithers toward you, body perfectly milky white contrasted by all those inky black curls, “I want your mouth.”
And never mind the fact that her dominate hand is breaching your core, two fingers at a time, wrist deep, making you choke on your breath and shudder on the exhale. Never mind the fact you can't even remember your own name, not when it's Bellatrix, you'll give what she demands and you'll do so willingly. Even as you're literally sucking in oxygen, chest heaving, bushy chestnut tresses sticking to your dampened skin, you struggle to hold your weight on your elbows.
You give her your mouth, arching your back both to give easier access and to drive her fingers deeper. And she chuckles, low in her throat, onyx eyes glistening with wickedness and mirth, holding herself back to make you wait. She wants you to beg, she wants you to plead, she wants you to cry out for her, even going as far as to still her fingers from where they're buried within you, simply playing in your wetness, relishing the tears that seep from the corners of your eyes.
She loves the torture, Bellatrix does. She loves the chase, she loves the linger, she loves watching the terror and the pain, and the absolute desperation flash in her lover's eyes. She gets off on it. And yet, she's holding back. Her in full force would be her performing a Cruciatus, her in full force would include knives and blood and actual pain. And you feel honored that she holds back with you, knowing how hard it is for her to do so, seeing the tension that she masks with consensual dominance. It's how she shows her love.
And finally, finally, she captures your lips between her teeth and you both give a muffled cry. Yes, it's too much and not enough at the same time. You clench and pulses around her fingers as she drives them deeper, deeper, and upward, swallowing your sobs of pleasure with the most lewd of groans that almost make you come again. And you wouldn't mind it, sensitivity be damned, so long as she doesn't stop fucking you or kissing you.