For Ben's Forbidden Love Challenge. 760 words. Enjoy!
Bonded Forever
Fleur hated herself. Hated herself for doing what she had said she would never do; for wilfully using the Allure on another human being, over and over again.
Yet she still did it.
She hated herself, too, for all those nights when she slipped away from Bill's side to go to the other warrior who beckoned her; who beckoned and seduced her, begged her to reign supreme with those heavily-lidded onyx eyes of hers. Hated that she was betraying him; the man she loved above all others…and with a woman old enough to be his mother, no less.
Yet she continued to do so; continued to smuggle notes to her Amazon Warrior, suggesting times and places. Appointments. What's more, she kept them.
Because, no matter how much Fleur tried to deny it; she loved it. She loved the heady sense of power it gave her to have the woman that most people called Voldemort's right hand woman gazing at her with pure supplication in her eyes. To have her writhing in pleasure beneath her lithe body. To have her moaning Fleur's name amongst all the Death Eater secrets she spilled as she climaxed.
She knew it was wrong. No matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise; tried to convince herself that the information Bellatrix yielded was worth every minute of the unholy coupling, she knew it was wrong. And yet she still loved it.
Bellatrix hated herself. Hated herself for failing to keep her promise to her Lord. Hated that she, a proud Pureblood Princess from the day she was born, had fallen prey to the wiles of a part breed such as this French Beauty. Hated that she was betraying her Lord, her family, her entire world, every time she even dreamed of the girl.
Nevertheless, she would never give Fleur Delacour up, not until the day she died. Bellatrix knew she wouldn't. The Veela scum might reduce her to a mess; a begging, adoring mess, who couldn't control her own emotions, but she gave her so much more. She gave her a wild thrill; the thrill of courting death and danger at every moment. It was a thrill Bellatrix hadn't experienced since before Azkaban.
And it was one she was addicted to. Even though she knew her Lord would Crucio her into insanity, kill her if he even so much as suspected of her dalliance with the Veela, she couldn't help herself. She lived for the moments when she read the times of their next appointment in the smooth handwriting; read of it on scraps of parchment that self-destructed into the finest of dust milliseconds after having been read. Lived for the feel of the silky hair under her calloused hands, the velvety cherubic mouth beneath her own chapped lips, the ache of desire that the kneading of the rounded thighs always caused deep within her. Lived for the gleam of silvery-blonde waterfalls, for eyes as pale as moonstones, yet as ever changing as opals, for skin as creamy and soft as a baby's; as her sister Narcissa's.
She knew it was wrong. She knew she shouldn't desire that bewitching creature so much. She knew she'd be ostracised, tortured, killed, if anyone should find out even one word of what she blurted to the Delacour demoiselle.
But then, when had Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black, she who was forever defiant, ever conformed to what society demanded of her?
Times changed. Places changed. But their feelings for one another never did. Their behaviour never did.
Wherever, whenever, they met, Fleur would still cloak herself in the mystery of the Allure and step out from the shadows to meet Bellatrix in the ghostly gleam of a gaslight. Her eyes would beckon, intrigue, invite.
Bellatrix would still catch her breath at the sight of her Mistress. Her dark eyes would still be glittering with a kind of desperate unfulfilled desire. Her normally erect posture, would still soften, ever so slightly, in anticipation.
Fleur would hold out her hand and Bellatrix would snatch at it eagerly; as eagerly as a child. They would disappear; disappear for just a few hours together, a few precious stolen hours.
One would think that this wouldn't be enough, not with all their doubts and fears and their hatred of their own feelings. But somehow it was. Somehow, though Merlin knows how, those few and far between nocturnal hours were enough. Enough to bind them together forever in a bond. An invisible, inexplicable, twisted bond that, try as they might, they could never break.