Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
A/N: Hi guys! I have really come to love Cissamione and this is my first try at this pairing. I have more than this chapter in store, but I am not sure where exactly I want to take this and how long it will be. Just going with the flow. Let me know what you think!
Rated M for smutty reasons.
The room is pitch black and quiet except for the breathing from the person next to her. Night has long fallen and yet she lies awake. She tries to calm the thoughts in her mind. They are nothing new, but they have been getting louder and louder, screaming at her to wake up from the numbness she has been living with. Thoughts fuel desire, driving her to the brink of insanity. The liquor she has had only intensifies the chaos in her head.
She is done.
Her feet touch the wooden floor as silently as possible as she goes to her cupboard and puts on a simple tight black dress and a coat over it. It is a lot more subtle than what she usually wears but she doesn't have the time or the nerves to put on a fancy appearance right now.
She apparates right out of the room and finds herself in one of the alleys that lead off from Diagon Alley. They're small, dark and unnervingly quiet. They mean shady business. That is something she is used to, but she feels nervous nevertheless. She checks her environment to make sure she is alone. For a moment she could swear she saw her mother in one of the windows, looking down on her with judging eyes, but there is no one.
The building in front of her has no front door, but she knows where to go. She heads around the building where the back entrance is. She has been here many times with in an internal struggle raging through her and she has always lost. Today she steps inside for the first time. Her heart is beating heavily in her chest but, of course, the nervousness does not show on her face.
"Which one?", the matron asks without looking at her.
"Your best", is her answer.
Now the matron looks up from her newspaper and astonishment flickers in her eyes for a second.
"No requirements? You don't have a type?", she smirks.
Of course she does, but she is certainly not about to bare her preferences here. She is baring enough as it is.
"Your best", she repeats with the tone and face of steel that never leaves room for questions.
"Room seven, third floor."
She walks up the steps to the third floor. They creak. With every step she takes her anxiety intensifies.
When she opens the door to room seven she is … disappointed. Everything is made out of shabby old wood, the bed is covered with simple white sheets, a single light bulb dangles from the ceiling. It is way below her standards but what is a girl to do in these desperate times of need.
"Don't be shy", a feminine voice sounds.
She takes in the woman in front of her. Red hair like fire, blue eyes like the ocean, ruby lips like blood. She is gorgeous indeed.
For a moment she hesitates. She has absolutely no idea how this is supposed to go down, but then she steps further into the room and holds the envelope out. The woman takes it, checks the amount of money inside and places it on the bedside table. The redhead walks up behind her and starts to open her dress and her stomach turns.
„You will not touch me", she interrupts the action. The first time a woman touches her should not happen like this.
The other tilts her head in confusion and curiosity.
"Understood?", Narcisaa reinforces.
The woman shrugs. "Whatever you say goes."
That is the type of answer she likes to hear.
"Strip."
The witch starts to take off the very few items she is wearing. She watches her like a hawk. How she slips her painted fingers underneath the straps of her bra to slide them down. How she bents her head forward just a bit to undo the hooks. How quickly her panties fall to the floor.
"Are you happy with what you see, Mrs. Malfoy?", the redhead smirks.
She freezes at the use of her last name. She doesn't like to be reminded of who she belongs to; most certainly not now.
"Turn around." Her harsh tone makes the witch flinch. Good.
The woman does as she is told.
She approaches her slowly, her heart beat quickening. She almost flinches herself as her fingers find soft skin. How different it feels. She pushes her down to rest her hands on the window sill. The fingers of her left hand scratch down the woman's back while those of her right hand already push inside. The experience overwhelms her senses. She takes in everything. The warmth, the wetness, the clenching walls, every scent, every sound – until a gasp leaves her own lips as she feels the long forgotten fire in her core.
When it's over she wonders whether the witch has faked it. Probably. She becomes more frustrated by the minute and it shows.
The woman's hand is on her shoulder. "Are you sure you don't want me to…"
"No", she snaps and leaves the room without looking back.
Outside the cold wind hits her face. She leans against the wall of the shady establishment and clenches her hands. She is annoyed by what she has gotten herself into. Now she is standing outside of a brothel; flushed, drunk and horney. She walks out into the night, directionless.
The streets are empty at this time as she wanders through them. Occasionally she stumbles. She barely drinks alcohol. At some point she falls. The cold snow against her hands and knees hurts, tickling a hurt much deeper inside her. Lips trembling, she tries her best to keep tears from falling, but every now and then, like tonight, even she fails.
"Mrs. Malfoy?"
Perfect. Someone would see her crawling on all fours in the dirty snow. Just what she needs.
She looks up and sees the golden know-it-all.
"Are you alright? Can I help you?"
She feels disgusted by so much politeness. They were on different sides of a war. How awfully kind can someone be?
"I'm fine."
She pushes herself back up, but her legs fail her and before she knows it she is being supported by two strong arms. Her head is spinning out of control and she can't help but lean into the other body. The girl tightens her grip on her to keep her up. Her coat feels so soft and smells of her perfume. It is almost comforting to be held like this.
"I'm gonna bring you home, ok?"
She pushes herself away from the girl. She wants to be anywhere but home.
Home. What even is that?
It is only a few meters until her legs fail her again.
The hands are on her once more, pulling her up again. She looks into the witch's face for the first time. A face that holds knowledge far beyond the girl's age; that seems to understand something although Narcissa hasn't said anything.
"My place?" the witch asks and she nods her agreement.
"I'm gonna apparate us. Hold on tight."
She does.
Within seconds Narcissa feels herself swirling until her feet hit the ground again.
"We're there. You can let go now."
Only she doesn't.
She tightens her grip.
Her hands move across the girl's back.
"Mrs. Malfoy. You're drunk."
She nods her agreement.
"You don't want this."
She laughs deep in her throat and moves to look the witch straight in the eyes. Her hand moves into her hair, grabs, holds the girl's head in place.
"You have no idea what I desire." Her voice is low and husky.
The witch mirrors her movements.
Neither of them can move.
It turns her on.
"Tell me what you desire, then."
She ponders for a second. There's so much she desires, but right in this moment …
"I want you to eat me out."
The girls's eyes grow wide.
Narcissa's eyes close in embarrassment. Alcohol makes her painfully honest.
The hand in her hair loosens its tight grip. "You can sleep on the couch tonight", the girl says and then walks away to leave her there, even more embarrassed.
Sleep comes to her easily, though. She's drunk enough. And tired; whether in a literal or metaphorical sense, she's not sure. She wakes just at the break of dawn and slowly the events of last night come back to her. In a hurry she leaves the apartment.