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hpkinkfestTitle: A Child That Knows Poems By Heart
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pauraque
Prompt Number: 251 submitted bydiamondwatchess
Kink Showcased: Impregnation (Fpreg)
Rating: R
Pairing: Narcissa/Astoria
Word Count: ~1900
Summary: They all say Scorpius looks like his father. They are wrong.
Content notes: Infidelity, age difference (50s/20s), mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship.
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write an Fpreg story for ages, so I was thrilled to see this prompt. Thanks to_hannelore for being my sounding board. ♥
+++
Astoria sits in a secluded corner of her parents' garden, on a delicately wrought white bench. The partygoers are just barely visible through the orange-leafed trees, and faint strains of laughter linger in the crisp fall air. She catches a glimpse of Draco between two branches, cradling a glass of wine and listening to Astoria's father with hooded eyes, head gently tilted. She can also see Daphne, holding her new baby girl and beaming like the sun, mouth open wide in laughter. Astoria has to look away.
When she does, she sees Narcissa coming toward her, placing her feet carefully upon the stony pathway that curves along the pond. Golden leaves drift down onto her parasol, which turns the dappled light into a soft jade glow about her face.
She sits down beside Astoria, tucking her skirt beneath her so elegantly — Astoria has never had that grace. Narcissa moves like a dancer, and her hair, too, in a tight bun, reminds Astoria of the ballet.
"You've missed the presents," Narcissa says, twirling her parasol lightly in her fingers.
"She'll have other birthdays." Astoria picks idly at a bit of paint peeling off the bench. "Maybe ones where not everything is really a gift for the baby."
With a sigh, Narcissa toes off her pointed grey shoes and stretches out her long legs, crossing her ankles in the grass. "Don't worry," she says. "It'll be you someday."
Astoria lets out a breath of a laugh, humourless. "That's easy for you to say."
"Nothing is easy," Narcissa says, with the calm frankness of a woman who has long lived a hard reality. "But you must learn that there is more to getting what you want than simply waiting for it to happen."
Astoria presses her lips together tightly, and glances up — she can still see Draco, but only the back of him now. "If you mean I should talk to him again, I can assure you I've tried..."
Narcissa takes Astoria gently by the chin, turns her face so their eyes meet. Narcissa's eyes are like diamonds: hard and beautiful. "There are ways," she says. "There is magic."
Astoria starts to shake her head. "I don't want to... to force—"
Tilting her parasol subtly towards the partygoers, concealing them from view, Narcissa leans in and kisses Astoria lightly on the mouth. Just that, and it leaves Astoria burning for more, eyes closed, arching towards her lover.
Narcissa laughs softly and places her fingertip upon Astoria's lips, as though binding her to secrecy. "There is magic," she says, gently insistent, "that young ladies do not learn about in school."
*
On the night that Narcissa weaves the spell, they are together in the master bedroom. Astoria knows that Narcissa and Lucius have not shared a bed in many years, and this room has become thoroughly Narcissa's, with her cosmetics on the night-stand, and ever-blooming pink carnations lining the dresser.
Astoria lies among the luxuriously soft sheets, her head upon deep pillows. She is undressed and nervous, each breath coming out with a little tremble. But Narcissa is beside her, also nude, and her lovely hands run over Astoria's hair and cup her cheek. Crow's feet show by Narcissa's eyes when she smiles, and she is so beautiful that Astoria's breath catches in her throat, and she reaches for her.
She kisses Narcissa's mouth, her cheeks, her neck... Narcissa shivers when Astoria reaches her collarbone, the spot Astoria knows is sensitive. Astoria finds herself hungry to touch and be touched, but Narcissa pushes her gently away, places her back down upon the pillows.
"You must have a clear mind," Narcissa murmurs, her hand tracing down between Astoria's breasts, down along her stomach. "You must want this. With your heart," she adds before Astoria can even answer, in that tone between stern and loving that always makes Astoria sit up and take notice. "You must want this with your heart," she goes on, her hand moving slowly down to rest below Astoria's stomach, above her sex.
Astoria places her own hand over Narcissa's, both of them touching the place where she is fertile, the cradle of life. She looks at Narcissa, and her eyes are clear.
"I do," she whispers.
Narcissa's wand is of dark-stained elm-wood, slender and elegant. As she takes it from the bedside table, Astoria looks at it with something approaching awe — she's never seen a wand this way before, as something numinous and powerful. Here, with the two of them nestled in what could be their marriage bed, it feels that way.
Wand in hand, Narcissa strokes the softest part of Astoria's inner thigh, and plants gentle kisses upon her breasts. Astoria's breath hitches, but she lies still, waiting. Narcissa's hand drifts higher, and she whispers ticklish words into Astoria's ear, words she has never heard before and will forget after, slipping away into the darkness to preserve their secrets. Beneath the sheets, between Astoria's thighs, Narcissa's wand is glowing green — not the sickly green of death, but the fresh spring-green of new life, a green so yellow it is almost gold.
Narcissa's fingers part Astoria's lips. She gasps at the sensation, pressing down against her, wanting her touch. She is wet, and Narcissa takes the wetness on her fingertips, spreads it along Astoria's folds. Astoria trembles, clenching her fists.
When the tip of Narcissa's wand touches her opening, it is like nothing she could have imagined. Warmth like sunlight enters into her and grows throughout her body, coiling like new sapling roots through her arms and legs, tingling and golden. The wand-light disappears as Narcissa gently pushes in.
It is not like the feeling of a man inside her, nor like a woman's fingers. The wand is not a toy, not something to take her pleasure with; it is something else altogether, something bright and sublime. As Narcissa's incantation reaches a crescendo at her ear, Astoria feels as though she is floating above the bed, all else fading away — no sadness, no envy.
There is only Narcissa, and there is only love.
*
The dark of the moon passes, and another, and Astoria does not bleed. She finds herself lingering over getting dressed, looking at her body in the mirror. She watches the swelling below her belly grow from week to week — she looks from the front, then turns to check the profile. She watches her nipples darken and feels the texture of her breasts change, subtly at first and then undeniable. She finds laughter bubbling up unbidden as she sees herself, laughing in both absurdity and joy.
Narcissa knocks at the door. "Come now," she says. "There's much to be done."
It is winter, with snow falling in slow, heavy flakes, and Astoria could hide her condition beneath a heavy coat if she wanted to, but they are hiding nothing. They go to a dress shop in Diagon Alley to buy maternity clothes, and Astoria simply cannot stop smiling.
"The fabric will constantly change its shape to fit your body," the shop-girl says, holding up a green dress with gold trim. "It's the latest design, a very popular item."
"What do you think?" Astoria asks Narcissa, taking the dress and smoothing it against her body. "I love the colour."
"It's lovely, darling," she says, caressing Astoria's hair. "It brings out your eyes." She kisses her daughter-in-law on the cheek, and they walk hand in hand to the till, ignoring the curious gazes of witches who pretend not to be looking.
*
The bigger Astoria gets, the more often they make love. Narcissa seems obsessed with Astoria's body, kissing all over her stretched-taunt belly, nipping at her heavy breasts. They scissor their legs together and Narcissa thrusts against her, eyes closed and hair coming loose about her shoulders — it's as wild as Astoria has ever seen her, and it makes her head swirl with fantasy: their wedding night, she as Narcissa's blushing bride, the mother of her children.
When her milk starts to come in, leaving wet patches on her nightgown, Narcissa curls up around her and suckles her breasts, drinking of her. It is the strangest and headiest thing Astoria has ever felt, breastfeeding the woman who has nearly been a mother to her. She strokes Narcissa's hair, in awe of herself — in awe of her own body and what it has become, as beautiful and nourishing as the earth.
One night, she comes back to Draco's bed, and he is awake. Or rather, he is not pretending to be asleep. She hesitates, then gets into bed beside him. She belongs here as much as he does.
Draco is looking curiously at her, his wife, eight months pregnant, whom he hasn't made love to in two years. She isn't sure what she expects him to say. She doesn't know much of her husband's private affairs; the Malfoys have their own ways of doing things. In the half-darkness, colour washed out, Draco's eyes look just like Narcissa's.
At last, he asks, "Are you happy?" It is not an accusation. Only a question.
Astoria opens her mouth, but is helpless to find the words. How can she tell him of this fiery joy, of what it is to have everything she's ever wanted — everything within her and everything without? How can she speak of what it is to bear Narcissa's child?
"Yes," she says.
He nods, looking past her, thoughtful. "Good," he says, and turns over. "Good."
*
The flowers are in full summer bloom, sweet and sumptuous. Astoria is sitting tailor fashion in the back garden, the sun beating down on her back and making her tingle with lazy warmth. Scorpius is walking so well on his own now that she has to watch him all the time. He toddles over to the begonias and grasps at them with his tiny hands, brow knit in the grave, infant concentration that always makes her smile.
She hears the back door of the house fall shut in the distance behind her, and in a minute Narcissa is there, idly twirling her parasol, her light linen dress rustling in the breeze.
Astoria shades her eyes with one hand as she gazes up. "You missed him falling in the pond," she says. "I wish you'd been here — he conjured a perfect little cloud to fall onto so he wouldn't get wet."
Narcissa lightly perches her parasol on a branch of the ornamental pear tree, and crouches down, addressing Scorpius. "Ah, my dear boy, did you really do that?"
Scorpius looks up at the sound of her voice, and his mouth opens in a broad grin. He waddles toward her, and she opens her arms to him. "Come here, sweet one," she says, and then makes a little uff as Scorpius nearly tackles her. Astoria covers a laugh.
"What a very big boy you're getting to be," Narcissa says conversationally, as though Scorpius can understand every word. She sits down on the grass with him giggling in her lap, arms thrown around her neck.
Everyone says Scorpius looks like his father. They see Draco in his pale hair and the colour of his eyes.
Astoria looks at him, and she sees the elegant line of Narcissa's jaw, and the delicate skin that Narcissa has passed down to both of her sons.
Author:
pauraquePrompt Number: 251 submitted by
diamondwatchessKink Showcased: Impregnation (Fpreg)
Rating: R
Pairing: Narcissa/Astoria
Word Count: ~1900
Summary: They all say Scorpius looks like his father. They are wrong.
Content notes: Infidelity, age difference (50s/20s), mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship.
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write an Fpreg story for ages, so I was thrilled to see this prompt. Thanks to
_hannelore for being my sounding board. ♥+++
Astoria sits in a secluded corner of her parents' garden, on a delicately wrought white bench. The partygoers are just barely visible through the orange-leafed trees, and faint strains of laughter linger in the crisp fall air. She catches a glimpse of Draco between two branches, cradling a glass of wine and listening to Astoria's father with hooded eyes, head gently tilted. She can also see Daphne, holding her new baby girl and beaming like the sun, mouth open wide in laughter. Astoria has to look away.
When she does, she sees Narcissa coming toward her, placing her feet carefully upon the stony pathway that curves along the pond. Golden leaves drift down onto her parasol, which turns the dappled light into a soft jade glow about her face.
She sits down beside Astoria, tucking her skirt beneath her so elegantly — Astoria has never had that grace. Narcissa moves like a dancer, and her hair, too, in a tight bun, reminds Astoria of the ballet.
"You've missed the presents," Narcissa says, twirling her parasol lightly in her fingers.
"She'll have other birthdays." Astoria picks idly at a bit of paint peeling off the bench. "Maybe ones where not everything is really a gift for the baby."
With a sigh, Narcissa toes off her pointed grey shoes and stretches out her long legs, crossing her ankles in the grass. "Don't worry," she says. "It'll be you someday."
Astoria lets out a breath of a laugh, humourless. "That's easy for you to say."
"Nothing is easy," Narcissa says, with the calm frankness of a woman who has long lived a hard reality. "But you must learn that there is more to getting what you want than simply waiting for it to happen."
Astoria presses her lips together tightly, and glances up — she can still see Draco, but only the back of him now. "If you mean I should talk to him again, I can assure you I've tried..."
Narcissa takes Astoria gently by the chin, turns her face so their eyes meet. Narcissa's eyes are like diamonds: hard and beautiful. "There are ways," she says. "There is magic."
Astoria starts to shake her head. "I don't want to... to force—"
Tilting her parasol subtly towards the partygoers, concealing them from view, Narcissa leans in and kisses Astoria lightly on the mouth. Just that, and it leaves Astoria burning for more, eyes closed, arching towards her lover.
Narcissa laughs softly and places her fingertip upon Astoria's lips, as though binding her to secrecy. "There is magic," she says, gently insistent, "that young ladies do not learn about in school."
*
On the night that Narcissa weaves the spell, they are together in the master bedroom. Astoria knows that Narcissa and Lucius have not shared a bed in many years, and this room has become thoroughly Narcissa's, with her cosmetics on the night-stand, and ever-blooming pink carnations lining the dresser.
Astoria lies among the luxuriously soft sheets, her head upon deep pillows. She is undressed and nervous, each breath coming out with a little tremble. But Narcissa is beside her, also nude, and her lovely hands run over Astoria's hair and cup her cheek. Crow's feet show by Narcissa's eyes when she smiles, and she is so beautiful that Astoria's breath catches in her throat, and she reaches for her.
She kisses Narcissa's mouth, her cheeks, her neck... Narcissa shivers when Astoria reaches her collarbone, the spot Astoria knows is sensitive. Astoria finds herself hungry to touch and be touched, but Narcissa pushes her gently away, places her back down upon the pillows.
"You must have a clear mind," Narcissa murmurs, her hand tracing down between Astoria's breasts, down along her stomach. "You must want this. With your heart," she adds before Astoria can even answer, in that tone between stern and loving that always makes Astoria sit up and take notice. "You must want this with your heart," she goes on, her hand moving slowly down to rest below Astoria's stomach, above her sex.
Astoria places her own hand over Narcissa's, both of them touching the place where she is fertile, the cradle of life. She looks at Narcissa, and her eyes are clear.
"I do," she whispers.
Narcissa's wand is of dark-stained elm-wood, slender and elegant. As she takes it from the bedside table, Astoria looks at it with something approaching awe — she's never seen a wand this way before, as something numinous and powerful. Here, with the two of them nestled in what could be their marriage bed, it feels that way.
Wand in hand, Narcissa strokes the softest part of Astoria's inner thigh, and plants gentle kisses upon her breasts. Astoria's breath hitches, but she lies still, waiting. Narcissa's hand drifts higher, and she whispers ticklish words into Astoria's ear, words she has never heard before and will forget after, slipping away into the darkness to preserve their secrets. Beneath the sheets, between Astoria's thighs, Narcissa's wand is glowing green — not the sickly green of death, but the fresh spring-green of new life, a green so yellow it is almost gold.
Narcissa's fingers part Astoria's lips. She gasps at the sensation, pressing down against her, wanting her touch. She is wet, and Narcissa takes the wetness on her fingertips, spreads it along Astoria's folds. Astoria trembles, clenching her fists.
When the tip of Narcissa's wand touches her opening, it is like nothing she could have imagined. Warmth like sunlight enters into her and grows throughout her body, coiling like new sapling roots through her arms and legs, tingling and golden. The wand-light disappears as Narcissa gently pushes in.
It is not like the feeling of a man inside her, nor like a woman's fingers. The wand is not a toy, not something to take her pleasure with; it is something else altogether, something bright and sublime. As Narcissa's incantation reaches a crescendo at her ear, Astoria feels as though she is floating above the bed, all else fading away — no sadness, no envy.
There is only Narcissa, and there is only love.
*
The dark of the moon passes, and another, and Astoria does not bleed. She finds herself lingering over getting dressed, looking at her body in the mirror. She watches the swelling below her belly grow from week to week — she looks from the front, then turns to check the profile. She watches her nipples darken and feels the texture of her breasts change, subtly at first and then undeniable. She finds laughter bubbling up unbidden as she sees herself, laughing in both absurdity and joy.
Narcissa knocks at the door. "Come now," she says. "There's much to be done."
It is winter, with snow falling in slow, heavy flakes, and Astoria could hide her condition beneath a heavy coat if she wanted to, but they are hiding nothing. They go to a dress shop in Diagon Alley to buy maternity clothes, and Astoria simply cannot stop smiling.
"The fabric will constantly change its shape to fit your body," the shop-girl says, holding up a green dress with gold trim. "It's the latest design, a very popular item."
"What do you think?" Astoria asks Narcissa, taking the dress and smoothing it against her body. "I love the colour."
"It's lovely, darling," she says, caressing Astoria's hair. "It brings out your eyes." She kisses her daughter-in-law on the cheek, and they walk hand in hand to the till, ignoring the curious gazes of witches who pretend not to be looking.
*
The bigger Astoria gets, the more often they make love. Narcissa seems obsessed with Astoria's body, kissing all over her stretched-taunt belly, nipping at her heavy breasts. They scissor their legs together and Narcissa thrusts against her, eyes closed and hair coming loose about her shoulders — it's as wild as Astoria has ever seen her, and it makes her head swirl with fantasy: their wedding night, she as Narcissa's blushing bride, the mother of her children.
When her milk starts to come in, leaving wet patches on her nightgown, Narcissa curls up around her and suckles her breasts, drinking of her. It is the strangest and headiest thing Astoria has ever felt, breastfeeding the woman who has nearly been a mother to her. She strokes Narcissa's hair, in awe of herself — in awe of her own body and what it has become, as beautiful and nourishing as the earth.
One night, she comes back to Draco's bed, and he is awake. Or rather, he is not pretending to be asleep. She hesitates, then gets into bed beside him. She belongs here as much as he does.
Draco is looking curiously at her, his wife, eight months pregnant, whom he hasn't made love to in two years. She isn't sure what she expects him to say. She doesn't know much of her husband's private affairs; the Malfoys have their own ways of doing things. In the half-darkness, colour washed out, Draco's eyes look just like Narcissa's.
At last, he asks, "Are you happy?" It is not an accusation. Only a question.
Astoria opens her mouth, but is helpless to find the words. How can she tell him of this fiery joy, of what it is to have everything she's ever wanted — everything within her and everything without? How can she speak of what it is to bear Narcissa's child?
"Yes," she says.
He nods, looking past her, thoughtful. "Good," he says, and turns over. "Good."
*
The flowers are in full summer bloom, sweet and sumptuous. Astoria is sitting tailor fashion in the back garden, the sun beating down on her back and making her tingle with lazy warmth. Scorpius is walking so well on his own now that she has to watch him all the time. He toddles over to the begonias and grasps at them with his tiny hands, brow knit in the grave, infant concentration that always makes her smile.
She hears the back door of the house fall shut in the distance behind her, and in a minute Narcissa is there, idly twirling her parasol, her light linen dress rustling in the breeze.
Astoria shades her eyes with one hand as she gazes up. "You missed him falling in the pond," she says. "I wish you'd been here — he conjured a perfect little cloud to fall onto so he wouldn't get wet."
Narcissa lightly perches her parasol on a branch of the ornamental pear tree, and crouches down, addressing Scorpius. "Ah, my dear boy, did you really do that?"
Scorpius looks up at the sound of her voice, and his mouth opens in a broad grin. He waddles toward her, and she opens her arms to him. "Come here, sweet one," she says, and then makes a little uff as Scorpius nearly tackles her. Astoria covers a laugh.
"What a very big boy you're getting to be," Narcissa says conversationally, as though Scorpius can understand every word. She sits down on the grass with him giggling in her lap, arms thrown around her neck.
Everyone says Scorpius looks like his father. They see Draco in his pale hair and the colour of his eyes.
Astoria looks at him, and she sees the elegant line of Narcissa's jaw, and the delicate skin that Narcissa has passed down to both of her sons.
