Work Text:
Hermione had spent a whole day and half the night of this...this ridiculousness and by the time she and Bellatrix had Apparated with sharp cracks at the front door of their blood warded home, she had had enough. Poor Elfie hadn't even had a chance to fully open the thing before the Minster for Magic had burst into the foyer, left eye twitching from the mad desire to violently yank her other half in behind her and slam the dark haired witch against the nearest wall and assault her with her mouth - be it with scathing words or her lips and teeth or both.
But there in lay the problem. The problem that had started this morning and was about to come to a screeching halt right the fuck now - excuse her language.
Bellatrix waltzed into her home as if she wore a crown on her head. Haughty and regal, with a perfect pout on her face. As if she had no worries, no want, no care and Hermione very nearly felt a growl rise in her chest at the sight.
Once they were both fully cloaked in the warmth of the manor, Hermione rounded on her lover, the crackling sparks of wandless magic burning heat into the floor. The devastating glare she leveled the other's way rivaled even that of her most severe looks at work and there, would be enough to absolutely torch some hapless assistant, in crisp maroon robes, fresh out of Hogwarts. Make them trip over their own feet, babbling some sorry excuse as they rushed away to do her bidding. But for all of that, Bellatrix was unaffected. Utterly immune. She strutted past Hermione and the display of finger casted fireworks as if she didn't even see them, stripping herself of her outerwear, pulling the pins from her hair, night kissed ringlets falling down her back, down to her waist. And she cocked her head and Hermione was forced to take in a side profile of perfection.
Smooth alabaster skin, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, the curve of full crimson lips. The makings of a smirk tugging at the edges, not yet fully bloomed, but Hermione could see it forming. As if the dark witch were amused by all of this.
And that only incensed the former Gryffindor impossibly further. A rage built in the center of her chest, burning white hot as her lungs expanded and her heart beat faster against her ribs. Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides and she was clenching her jaw tight enough that she was sure she might crack her molars as her nostrils flared.
"Take it off," and she really did growl this time, the words coming out low and rough and heated.
Bellatrix, damn her, finally did turn to face her lover properly now. Slowly though, knowing the affect she had and would always have on the other. She tilted her head, her curls spilling down her left side. Her hooded eyes, dark as an ocean at midnight, gleamed in the firelight, something akin to mischief swimming in their depths. The dramatic make up she had (purposely) opted for that evening highlighted and accentuated every incredibly fucking gorgeous feature she possessed. She remained silent for a heartbeat and half before unnecessarily licking her lips, even going so far as to slightly furrow her sculpted brows in feigned confusion.
"Take what off, pet?"
Hermione wanted to smack her. She didn't, she wouldn't. Ever. But still, she wanted to. Just the same, she rubbed at her temples to ease the throbbing of her pulse there, taking several deep and hopefully composing breaths through her nose, letting her eyes momentarily close so she wouldn't be distracted by the sight of the entirely over the top black dress her witch had decided to wear for their weekly Sunday dinner at Andromeda's.
She didn't even have to look as it had been burned into her retinas for the last few hours. The dress fit her like a glove and even though she wore no corset, her waist had been trained over decades of tight lacing to retain an hourglass form. Her swan-like neck gave way to a seemingly delicate collarbone, milk white shoulders and the rise of an amble bust, sitting so pretty. It was the split in the dress though that had nearly made Hermione - and the other two Black sisters - short circuit. It was sinful the way the black fabric exposed a creamy, shapely thigh, opening the dark witch up like a damned present.
Yeah, no, Hermione was going to keep her eyes closed just a moment longer. But then her backbone kicked in, the one she had steadily built years and years until she had become the Minster for fucking Magic. She wouldn't be quelled by a flash of leg and a sexy ass simper, no matter how intoxicating.
"The spell," Hermione commanded, even if her tone was far less than hard and stoic, more like shaky and loathingly pleading. She ignored all of that though, "Take it off. Now."
And Bellatrix ate it the hell up. She did. The smirk that had been blossoming on her lips now erupting into a full on shit eating grin, white teeth flashing like the fangs of a vampire. She even looked the part with her ruby red mouth and predatory gaze. The way her brows ironed out, the faux confusion overtaken by something knowing and even a little hungry.
"My my, Madame Minister," she fucking purred, setting the tip of her tongue between her front teeth as she lithely angled her body closer without moving a step, "You seem to be in a mood. Was that a direct order?"
Hermione had had enough. She strode forward, honey eyes blazing, and seized her lover by the wrist. Only to bite back a yelped expletive. As soon as her hand connected, it felt as if she had touched a live wire, a lick of fire almost, shooting up her arm. And all day, it had been this way. Even the slightest touch. Any time her skin made direct contact with Bellatrix she had been forced to snatch her hand away from the instant pain it had caused. It had been enough to make her wince and hiss and flinch and gasp, even cry out at one point. But now she was done with whatever the hell this game was.
She held fast to that wrist now, her grip tightening even while the pain increased. It was like full on touching a hot stove, burning. Hermione ignored the flames barbecuing her wand hand and stepped even closer to fully invade her dark witch's personal space. She also ignored the fleeting look of shocked concern that flashed in those dark eyes before she Apparated the both of them from the foyer right into the center of their large bedroom with a sound that rivaled a gun shot.
She never let go. The sensation of her hand on skin she had touched a thousand times searing itself into her flesh like a brand. Gods she wanted to scream. It hurt so bad. But she held on. She had felt worse, experienced worse in her lifetime. That morning it had been a shock, that afternoon as the day had bled into night and she realized just how much she had grown accustomed to simply touching what was hers, she was made aware. Even the casual brush had nearly felled her at some point in the evening. But not now. Not anymore.
Hermione watched with unbridled glee as Bellatrix, stunned as all fuck, involuntarily swallowed at the wild look that was no doubt reflecting in her chestnut glare. "Do you know," the Minister for Magic heard herself rasp and she deliberately walked her evidently deranged lover back toward the bed, stalking, voracious, "That I've been literally dying to touch you all day? And every time I did, this clever little spell of yours made me feel like I had stuck my hand in a fucking wasp's nest." The back of Bellatrix's knees met the bed and that risqué black dress rode up her delicious leg as she fell with a breathy sound. It only fueled Hermione further as she took in the sight of her witch splayed out and open, heaving chest confined by black lycra. Bellatrix propped herself up by her elbows. Her dark eyes still held onto the edge of concern, an unasked question. Is this okay? Too much? But something else was there too. A challenge swam in those inky waters too and Hermione was hellbent diving right the fuck in.
The sheer audacity of her lover to cast such a cruel spell, to repel her touch, it fueled Hermione's anger to the point where when she grabbed Bellatrix's thigh, hard enough that she might leave a bruise, she didn't even react to the drugged out Stinging Hex that met her palm. She just squeezed tighter, until the dark witch's lashes fluttered and a high pitched mewl breached those red painted lips.
Hermione was the Head of Britain's Wizarding World for Godric's sake. When people played stupid games with her, they won even stupider prizes. And the love of her damned life was no exception.
"Better yet," she all but snarled, not even recognizing the sound of her own voice. Judging by the unadulterated lust in her lover's eyes, the annoying smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth, as Bella spread her legs at the knee, revealing her lack of underwear courtesy of that devious split, she must have looked and sounded utterly feral, "Leave the spell. I can take it."
God she hated that old Gryffindor blood in her veins sometimes. But it was all she said - knowing Bellatrix being Bellatrix would definitely not insist on casting the counter spell - before taking a deep breath to not only strengthen her resolve, but to brace herself for what was more than likely going to be a world of hurt. She was angry and aroused enough that she almost believes she will get through this without regretting the hastily made request.
And then, embracing her inner lioness on the hunt for its quarry, she pounced.
She caught the gasp of shock right out of Bella's mouth, her body tensing as it felt as though her lips had been struck by lightning. Still, Hermione kissed her witch with a passion, using the pain to fuel the way her lips and tongue and teeth literally devoured that infuriating smirk. Within moments she had the dark witch gasping and arching into her - clearly just as touch starved in the past few hours her damned self - as Hermione's kisses blazed a literal path of flames down a pretty pale neck and a throat she so desperately wanted to squeeze.
She bit into that tender flesh instead, relishing the way Bellatrix, mighty witch that she was, crumbled and writhed, face contorting in pleasured pain as Hermione sucked bruises into her skin.
The dress stayed. She could have very well vanished it, her own white button down and suit pants too if she wanted to, but Hermione didn't. Bravery was one thing, idiocy another. If her hands and fingers and mouth felt the way they did, she didn't want to experience what the rest of her body might feel. Bellatrix was a powerful witch. And she knew that feeling like she was being roasted alive would not only kill the mood but dry up whatever moisture had already pooled into her knickers.
Still there was something absolutely sublime about having her wife like this. Erotic. Everywhere her hands touched, the curve of her waist, a pull through her curls, the grip of her thigh, the press of her mouth. The dress, pretty as it was, acted somewhat of a barrier but Hermione was greedy and that same Gryffindor part of her blindly grabbed for irresistible moon-like skin only to be met with a resistance that was likened to being stabbed with the pointy end of a sharpened blade.
"Oh fuck pet," Bella cried out, all broken and breathy as Hermione effortlessly popped her breasts free of the dress' elastic and engulfed her more sensitive left nipple into her mouth and sucked it into a hardened, dusky rose pebble. She released it with a wet sound and lavished the same attention to the other. Bellatrix's hips bucked upward, desperate to find relief. Probably had been using the last few hours as some sort of twisted foreplay and Hermione absolutely delighted in the chance to make her lover suffer in the same way she had.
Open, ready, and wanting, Hermione could practically smell Bella's arousal. For a split second and nothing more, it made her feel vengeful. It had been all day, the hours passing at a snail's pace, especially once she had realized what her lover had done. And then it had gone into all night too, as she pranced around in that dress, the Minister had been dripping, clear slick bleeding through the gusset of her knickers, with want. Only to be denied. Each and every time. She could do it. Deny Bellatrix the same way she had been denied. If she wanted to, she could. But she didn't want to, she couldn't. As crazed as Bellatrix had been deemed, she was just as crazy, it seemed. She needed this just as badly.
With a pain induced sound she cupped Bella's center, groaning at the feel of all that wet heat, practically spilling between the cracks of her fingers. Without missing a beat, she let her middle and index encase a swollen clit between them and stroked. Bellatrix keened and Hermione was driven no matter how bad it hurt, she allowed herself to focus on the wetness that poured and the way her witch's moans, open mouthed and guttural filled the space of their room.
Needing more, Hermione suddenly lined those same two fingers at her lover's entrance and buried them right to the knuckle, and the way Bellatrix screamed so fucking pretty and helpless and vulnerably wanton as sodden silken walls clenched wildly around her, embracing her, it was almost enough to make her forget how angry she was.
Almost.
Hermione curled her fingers, punishingly coaxing her witch to a climax that was surely going to shatter her. And Bellatrix choked on the overload of pleasure, a cry getting stuck in her throat as her eyelashes fluttered, eyes rolling back and her spine bowed to point where it had to be hurting her.
"Mhm," the former Gryffindor drawled, trying her damnedest to disguise the pain she was feeling, "That's what you get, you wicked thing. Now come for me. And I want to hear it."
So lost in pleasure as Bellatrix was in that moment, Hermione didn't even think to Occlude. But sure enough, the former Slytherin managed to slither into her thoughts right before she came with a throaty yell that tapered off into a series of sobbing moans and breathy hums that matched in time with the throbbing flutter of her core, spasming around deft fingers. And Hermione felt it all. She shuddered and uttered a slew of breathless, high pitched swear words as her own center clutched at nothing but air, the visceral and mental experience of Bella's release just enough to violently throw her over the edge even without direct touch.
As the two of them struggled to regain their own body's regular rhythm of oxygen intake, they curled into each other. Naturally that was what they did after sex, especially when the sex was a good -for some reason - as it had been tonight. It took Hermione several gulps of air, her heart thumping wildly as she regained the feelings in her legs to realize that Bellatrix had in fact, thankfully, revoked the spell. What she felt now was nothing but hot and damp skin covered in fabric that she immediately vanished with a wandless Vestes Evanesca which rendered her bare as well. Finally, finally being able to have every inch of her naked skin on the one she loved it was almost enough to get her going again. But that could wait. For now.
"You are such a fucking child," the brunette scolded when some time had passed and she found her voice at last. It was a wild statement giving the fact that Bellatrix actually out aged her by nearly thirty years, but still. Chronological age had nothing on maturity.
Bella made a pleased though tired sound low in her throat as she turned over to properly face her lover. "Clingy like one too, yes?" she murmured, her dark gaze finally meeting that of liquid honey and Hermione went rigid.
Her mind took a walk down memory lane to the night before when she had been bogged down with work. Memos, still fire scorched damned near toppling over her desk. Inquiries and Wizengamot court dates, black tie functions she had to attend, some she had to book, prepare, and secure Portkey locations for. Between all of that, Hermoine very briefly remembered remarking after the third or fourth complaint from her wife that Bellatrix was being the slightest bit clingy. Still.
"That's what you were cross about?" Shocked incredulity lit up her tone as she shifted in the bed to stare wide eyed at her wife, "Jesus Bellatrix, really?"
And Bella merely shrugged a shoulder, ignoring the outrage, and satisfaction bled through her next statement, "Funny to watch the Virgo become the Scorpio for a few hours. Also, you swear so prettily when you're angry pet."
Hermione was sure she resembled a fish out of water as she gaped and sputtered out an unintelligible response. It took a few tries until she finally settled on one. "You're fucking mad," she gasped, meaning it with every fiber of her being, but unable to stop the pulse of love that made her grip the dark witch closer to her, that made her lay a kiss on that proud forehead, that made heart flutter at the mere thought of having this one all to herself. Insane as it was.
Bellatrix melted into her touch and Hermione would have preferred it no other way. Especially not after tonight.
"Mmm, mad? Yes, pet, so I've been told.