Work Text:
avenel
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
on double pleasures:
leave thy cold dispute.
—G. Herbert
༒
Narcissa was certain that if her dear mother and Aunt Walburga could have seen her now, they’d have tied her to a pole and set her witching bones on fire faster than a lit match in powdered fluxweed. For the disgrace. For the Black name she was dragging cunt-first through the dirt like some split-lipped trollop with no lineage whatsoever.
. . . But a family tribunal might still have been the easier way to go – because if the girl between her legs kept going as she was, Narcissa was going to die with bite-marked thighs and no alibi.
Such a ridiculous thing to do, really. Down in the bar of Hôtel Sortilège after twelve hours of compliance briefings in French and Lyon heat still clinging to the inside of her top – and in had pranced the entire starting lineup of the Holyhead Harpies, loud with youth and affluence and absolutely nothing to lose. Of course the Weasley girl had recognised her. Fame had smudged itself around her eyes like cheap maquillage refusing to be wiped away. She’d marched over grinning, bold as brass, as though they were cousins at a wedding.
Narcissa had refused to look at her, at first. They’d exchanged the kind of non-pleasantries that flattered themselves as wit – bad blood, fashion jabs, Weasley with a beer in one hand and lining up her insults and personal achievements with the other. Too relaxed. Too red. Said that unlike some, she was very good at everything she did; that she broke records because she was bored.
Said also, Narcissa looked very fine for someone who’d once wanted to murder her entire clan by policy. Said the years had done her well. Said Malfoy money must have been one hell of an anti-aging charm.
Said she wondered if the Lady was always so quiet.
Narcissa had meant to nod, sneer, say nothing. Instead, her imbecile of a brain – thirsty for verbal sparring or wilting in the forty-degree scorch or rotten through by three glasses of Rosé – had made her look up and whisper, wouldn’t you like to know.
And now she’d made her own hotel bed.
She still had half a mind to rise off her knees, veil herself in her robes, and walk straight out the door without so much as a backward glance. She would have, too – if the girl hadn’t actually been right.
She was intolerably good at everything she was doing.
Narcissa hated having to eat her words. Desperate for a foothold, she tried to conjure something sharp and hereditary – something about excess freckles, or the ridiculousness of Quidditch, or how even a phoenix could only shit so high before coming back down with the rest of the poultry. She arrived at kennel-breed, then ball-fetching mutt, then D-list fuckbait, none of which could be voiced – because the Weasley girl was licking her senseless, and if Narcissa unclenched her jaw now, she knew for an absolute fact that what would follow wouldn’t be a gash, but some disgusting prayer torn straight from her throat like praise in a language too lowly.
“Still trying to keep it down, Lady Malfoy?”
Narcissa nearly gasped at the sudden absence between her legs, nerves straining into naught.
“It’s Black now,” she forced through her teeth, clipped with the venom of outrage that a half-famous broom jockey would find her plight funny – that a girl like that had the gall to sound amused.
“Right. Was it your mother who taught you all that restraint? Or just the good ol’ pride and prejudice?”
Narcissa groaned and aimed a slap – but her palm landed on her own thigh with a weak smack; her arms were bound at her sides, spell-tight, elbows drawn close enough to lift her chest. The rope crossed above and below her breasts, down her waist, tension tracing her ribcage in rigs. It kept her exposed, precisely how the girl wanted her – on widely-spread knees, upright on the bed, facing some Impressionist pond of brushstrokes hung above the tufted headboard.
She hadn’t expected the bindings. The girl had waited – waited until she’d had Narcissa straddling her face, knees in place, chin lifted in challenge – and then cast the ropes without a wand. They’d spun from thin air, threading fast and hot around Narcissa’s upper half, locking at the base of her spine with a satin-sweet tug.
She’d gone still at first. A body’s betrayal; muscles holding their breath – until something rebellious in her stomach had given and unhooked.
Because it was obscene. To be restrained by someone so young, so red-faced and mouthy and smug – and still feel the first clean air she’d breathed in months. Tied and freed. Immobilised and finally – briefly – outside the dull drag of her own days. The spellwork too was astonishing – but she would not say so. She would not inflate this ego. It was already swollen, oversized, barely fit the girl’s skull.
Even in her resistance though, Narcissa could feel the pleas building. One or two words, if this continued, and Ginevra Weasley’s self-regard would become a structural hazard.
“You know, I never pegged you for a beggar,” came the low chuckle against her inner thigh, “but I bet I can make you one.”
Narcissa straightened, back straining and breasts lifting against the rope, honour outweighing the ache in her cunt. “I will most certainly not be begging you for any – ohh…”
The girl’s tongue dragged slow and thorough; a vertical pass with no mercy that parted her folds, moved inside and – vanished.
Narcissa gave a raw, frustrated sound from the back of her throat – pleasure gone, nothing touching her. The heat receded too fast, her walls clenching at the loss. She looked down, breath hissing through her teeth.
The girl was staring up at her like a lazy fox with too much time, freckled face slick and shiny from half a meal – and pleased with it.
“Problem?” she drawled.
Narcissa’s face burned. “Must you keep teasing.”
Weasley cocked a brow, fingertips idly stroking between the ropes at Narcissa’s lower back, “Mmh, maybe not. If you ask nicely. Fancy a try?”
Narcissa’s jaw set against the tremble in her thighs; against the sweat at her temples. She turned her head, looking away. Focused on the room, on the gold-trimmed drinks cabinet and the expensive designer chair – on anything that wasn’t the itch in her loins or her need so urgent it was threatening to split her core in two.
A kiss pressed just beside her clit – and she gasped before she could stop herself, eyes falling shut.
“Ask nicely, Miss Black.”
Narcissa dragged air into her lungs. Her skin prickled, gooseflesh running along her bound arms. Furious at being played with, she lowered down against the loose hold on her thighs to grind the smirk right off Weasley’s face – but strong hands caught her hips and lifted her back up. She snarled, then growled from the depths of her chest. The sound was real, the fierce kind – and had the girl snickering.
“More tongue, less talk, huh? Told you I was good. And you can have it. Just say please.”
Narcissa’s teeth ground together; the pull was mounting at the apex of her thighs, dense and insistent, forcing nerves into shape – pathetic sounds to threaten slippage past her lips. Still, she forced her eyes open to look down, lashes clumped from sweat.
“I will do no such thing.”
The girl’s clear eyes were practically glittering with delight. Her mouth bent into something arrogant and elated – like Narcissa’s refusal was the real invitation.
“No, I think you will,” Weasley whispered. But she did nothing except close her own eyes, blow air over Narcissa’s folds, then gently nip her thigh again – but it was enough for more wretched tension to gather between her legs; for the barest whimper to make it up her throat. She wordlessly shifted her weight forward, fighting for more friction, more contact – just more anything after nearly an hour of excruciating torture – always held three paces from the precipice.
Strong hands clamped down on her hips again.
“Oh, for the love of –” Narcissa’s voice broke low. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sight of that grinning, self-serving face. “I knew you’d make me regret this, you insolent child. Now if you aren’t going to get on with it, undo this spell so I can – oh Gods –”
Narcissa’s head tipped back the second she felt wet heat trace her clit again. Her knees twitched inwards; her hips wriggled, seeking, fingers flexing against her thighs for grip that wasn’t there. The sensation was criminal – concentrated behind her skin, her bones, her breath. Below her, a boastful hum vibrated through her sensitive slit – then pressure at her entrance – and Narcissa nearly fell over.
The girl must have done something, used some silent spell on herself too – because no tongue could move like that without help. There was no biological excuse for that kind of length. Not only did its every pass hit the spot that Narcissa loved having rubbed – it plunged further, pulsing against the entirety of her front wall in a way that had little lights going off behind her eyelids and her chest bursting with all the sounds she refused to give – whorish moans bunching in her throat like fabric being bitten. She scraped for thought, but the girl stripped it, tearing through vocabulary, memory, poise – until there was only rhythm, constant and perfect and so sinfully close –
Narcissa yelped like she meant to sob – the tongue was gone, her hips snapping to chase it with nowhere to move, spine tight enough to cramp, mind scoured to silence by pure need with no relief – bordering on delirium now. She stared down at the girl, chest heaving in frenzied fury, but all she got was a wink and that shit-eating grin.
“I know,” Ginevra laughed, low. “It’s quite something, isn’t it. Want it back?”
Narcissa’s hands twitched, fingers bent like claws in her thighs. She thought she might lunge, might scream, might curse the girl and her Quaffles to hell – but nothing above the waist would answer. Her breathing drummed, too shallow, staggered. That blinding, ferocious want – heathen enough to blow her off the tapestry, should she give in and plead – just kept screaming in her stomach, pressure corralling into tight, useless loops.
Her body wanted to solve itself – caught between murder and collapse. Wanted to end before she lost her mind and forgot her own name at the hands of a Weasley.
But the signal didn’t come. Instead, the girl kept looking at her expectantly. And when Narcissa just kept blinking, kept gasping, winded – the devil below lewdly parted its slick-red lips, then ran the tip of its tongue along the inner edge of the lower one, catching the corner on the way back, just to taunt.
Here is what you want, held where you can’t reach it. This, and you’ll ask.
Narcissa saw it, parsed it, swallowed it. Her voice snagged halfway down her throat, heavy as the wetness coating Ginevra’s lips – and pride slipped under rage, under Narcissa’s clenched jaw.
Her body had been dragged against the edge but held back, over and over, the promise gutted mid-pulse – leaving her no choice but to speak, with the cadence of surrender and the soiled-lush lilt of past pretense,
“Please keep going.”
Weasley stilled entirely. “What’s that?”
A groan rose behind Narcissa’s sternum, tight and angry. “I said – I said please.”
The girl broke into an indecent laugh, eyes alight in the rapture of conquest. Narcissa could only watch, cheeks flaring red, stinging with the knowledge of the unmasked, rakehell filth she’d just let out of her mouth.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered with what little strength she had left, narrowing her eyes in warning.
Weasley grinned wider, reaching up to grip the ropes below Narcissa’s breasts. “Too late.”
Narcissa huffed, shame crawling up her throat and perching there – but then that wicked muscle finally slid back inside her, moving in sync with the staccato of her breathy moans.
By the time she was about to crest, slick and writhing on the silver tongue of a blood-traitor barely half her age, she could hear the chorus of matriarchal ghosts shrieking for decorum; their verdicts ready, demanding she beg pardon for her jagged indulgence – close her legs and her mouth both – but the Weasley girl tongued deeper, fucked her better than anyone or anything before – and Narcissa loosed a sound raked raw with glee; this unrepentant harlot’s moan that no decorum could house, ringing loud enough to ruin the entire family line and replace its anthem.
She imagined them watching, the women of her Noble House. She almost hoped they were. Let them gather in judgment – let them clutch their pearls with blistered hands. One girl’s mouth was dismantling four decades of whip-reared reserve – what better grave for Black pedigree than between a divorced daughter’s thighs.
fin.