Fic: No Mere Mortal (HP; Bellatrix/Voldemort)
(I am so behind on reposting stuff.)
Title: No Mere Mortal
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Symbolic bondage
Other Warnings: See pairing
Word Count: 1012
Summary: "I am ready, my lord," she says, knowing he will understand the prayer underlying her words. Take me. Claim me. I am yours.
Notes: Written for Daily Deviant back in July; originally posted here.
As soon as Bellatrix steps through the door, her gaze seeks him out. He is standing by the far wall, dressed in black robes, a pillar of power in the dark and otherwise empty room. Bellatrix falls on her knees, without taking her eyes from him.
The Manor is silent around them, most of the people being gathered in another wing. Nobody is allowed into this room but the two of them. This is for Bellatrix and her lord only.
"My lord," she whispers, not even trying to keep the anticipatory shudder out of her voice.
Their gazes meet and lock. Pleasure slices through Bellatrix like the finest of steel blades, and her lord smiles.
"Bella," he says. The name is a caress, a validation. An invitation. "Stand up."
With grace that never left her, she rises to her feet. She knows what is about to happen. She has longed for it.
She took the Mark years ago, as the first one in the family. But although the Mark is important, it is not special. It can be found even among his lowest servants, no matter how useless or incompetent. This is different. This is an acknowledgement, a claim. It will show the world how much her lord values her above the rest.
He watches her now, intensely. "Undress."
She starts to unbutton her robes, her hands trembling a little with anticipation. Her gaze never leaves her lord's. It is not boldness, merely frankness. He must always know that she has no secrets from him.
Her robes fall down and she stands naked before him. Not young anymore, not flawless, not after all those years in Azkaban. But the magic of centuries is flowing in her veins. She stands proud and tall as ever, long dark hair cascading down a back the blood traitors never managed to break, and her lord's burning gaze wanders over her slowly, approvingly. In his eyes she is beautiful, and that is all that matters.
"I am ready, my lord," she says, knowing he will understand the prayer underlying her words. Take me. Claim me. I am yours.
His eyes gleam possessively and she draws a sharp breath, her nipples hardening. Deep inside her body, warm desire coils.
She tries not to shiver as he traces a pattern on her collar bone, first with a finger, then with his wand. What the pattern is, she does not yet know and she does not ask. She trusts.
"My Bella," the Dark Lord murmurs, and the words go straight to Bellatrix's groin. She closes her eyes, letting out a slight moan. He presses his lips to her collarbone and whispers a spell.
The pain, when it comes, is hot and burning, sliding ruthlessly through her skin in the pattern her lord traced. Bellatrix does not cry out. She breathes with her mouth open, her eyes still closed. She savours the feeling of being claimed, wanted, her lord's most beloved. Her nerves are tingling. Between her legs she is wet, throbbing.
Her lord is still close to her, not touching, but she can feel his presence, the magic radiating from him. He is power, purity, purpose. He and the cause are one and they cannot be separated from another. He is like no other man on Earth, no mere mortal.
But even so, he will still indulge her when the mood so takes him.
"My lord," she whispers, opening her eyes to look at him. Red, smoldering eyes that would not have been beautiful if they'd belonged to anyone else. "My lord, may I...?"
He does not even need to ask what she is referring to. He must feel her arousal coming off of her in waves, just as she can feel his magic. "Yes, Bella."
The pain does not go away as Bellatrix finally reaches between her legs and touches herself. It burns and it sears and it mingles with the desire humming through her body, with the jolts of pleasure coaxed by her hand, with her lord's presence by her side.
"Oh," she groans, for he has watched her touch herself like this before, and not once has she been chastised for making sounds. "Oh, please, my lord, may I see -"
A mirror suddenly appears before her, beside him, and there it is: herself, naked and claimed, a complicated pattern winding over her collarbone, pulsing achingly and deliciously in time with her arousal. Her lord steps behind her and watches the two of them over her shoulder. Their eyes meet again, in the mirror. He raises a hand and lets it hover over her collarbone, still not touching. She is close now, almost there.
As Bellatrix gazes into the mirror, hand working furiously, the pattern changes colour: there is a flash, an impossibly sharp stab of pain, and the pattern glows green.
"It means you are wholly mine," the Dark Lord whispers, and Bellatrix screams as her world explodes in pleasure.
She would have fallen on her knees again, if her lord had not caught her with a suspension spell that leaves her hanging in mid-air, shaking and gasping. Finally, he lowers her down on the floor. She lies on her back, dizzy and blissful, but she still manages to say what must be said.
"Thank you, my lord," she rasps.
He nods, obviously pleased with her. Once again, she has not failed him.
Soon after, he leaves her to meet with other, inferior servants. She does not begrudge them this, not now. She has what they will never have. She has a mark that belongs to her, and her only.
Bellatrix rests in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the new mark carved into her skin. Two snakes, tangled together, fangs sunken into each other's skin. Impossible to see where one begins and the other ends.
She has always had a purpose, she has always been powerful, but now it is visible for all to see. Truth made into flesh.
She runs a finger over her collarbone and smiles as desire stirs again.
This entry was originally posted at http://miss-morland.dreamwidth.org/88322.html. You may comment there, if you like.
Title: No Mere Mortal
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Symbolic bondage
Other Warnings: See pairing
Word Count: 1012
Summary: "I am ready, my lord," she says, knowing he will understand the prayer underlying her words. Take me. Claim me. I am yours.
Notes: Written for Daily Deviant back in July; originally posted here.
As soon as Bellatrix steps through the door, her gaze seeks him out. He is standing by the far wall, dressed in black robes, a pillar of power in the dark and otherwise empty room. Bellatrix falls on her knees, without taking her eyes from him.
The Manor is silent around them, most of the people being gathered in another wing. Nobody is allowed into this room but the two of them. This is for Bellatrix and her lord only.
"My lord," she whispers, not even trying to keep the anticipatory shudder out of her voice.
Their gazes meet and lock. Pleasure slices through Bellatrix like the finest of steel blades, and her lord smiles.
"Bella," he says. The name is a caress, a validation. An invitation. "Stand up."
With grace that never left her, she rises to her feet. She knows what is about to happen. She has longed for it.
She took the Mark years ago, as the first one in the family. But although the Mark is important, it is not special. It can be found even among his lowest servants, no matter how useless or incompetent. This is different. This is an acknowledgement, a claim. It will show the world how much her lord values her above the rest.
He watches her now, intensely. "Undress."
She starts to unbutton her robes, her hands trembling a little with anticipation. Her gaze never leaves her lord's. It is not boldness, merely frankness. He must always know that she has no secrets from him.
Her robes fall down and she stands naked before him. Not young anymore, not flawless, not after all those years in Azkaban. But the magic of centuries is flowing in her veins. She stands proud and tall as ever, long dark hair cascading down a back the blood traitors never managed to break, and her lord's burning gaze wanders over her slowly, approvingly. In his eyes she is beautiful, and that is all that matters.
"I am ready, my lord," she says, knowing he will understand the prayer underlying her words. Take me. Claim me. I am yours.
His eyes gleam possessively and she draws a sharp breath, her nipples hardening. Deep inside her body, warm desire coils.
She tries not to shiver as he traces a pattern on her collar bone, first with a finger, then with his wand. What the pattern is, she does not yet know and she does not ask. She trusts.
"My Bella," the Dark Lord murmurs, and the words go straight to Bellatrix's groin. She closes her eyes, letting out a slight moan. He presses his lips to her collarbone and whispers a spell.
The pain, when it comes, is hot and burning, sliding ruthlessly through her skin in the pattern her lord traced. Bellatrix does not cry out. She breathes with her mouth open, her eyes still closed. She savours the feeling of being claimed, wanted, her lord's most beloved. Her nerves are tingling. Between her legs she is wet, throbbing.
Her lord is still close to her, not touching, but she can feel his presence, the magic radiating from him. He is power, purity, purpose. He and the cause are one and they cannot be separated from another. He is like no other man on Earth, no mere mortal.
But even so, he will still indulge her when the mood so takes him.
"My lord," she whispers, opening her eyes to look at him. Red, smoldering eyes that would not have been beautiful if they'd belonged to anyone else. "My lord, may I...?"
He does not even need to ask what she is referring to. He must feel her arousal coming off of her in waves, just as she can feel his magic. "Yes, Bella."
The pain does not go away as Bellatrix finally reaches between her legs and touches herself. It burns and it sears and it mingles with the desire humming through her body, with the jolts of pleasure coaxed by her hand, with her lord's presence by her side.
"Oh," she groans, for he has watched her touch herself like this before, and not once has she been chastised for making sounds. "Oh, please, my lord, may I see -"
A mirror suddenly appears before her, beside him, and there it is: herself, naked and claimed, a complicated pattern winding over her collarbone, pulsing achingly and deliciously in time with her arousal. Her lord steps behind her and watches the two of them over her shoulder. Their eyes meet again, in the mirror. He raises a hand and lets it hover over her collarbone, still not touching. She is close now, almost there.
As Bellatrix gazes into the mirror, hand working furiously, the pattern changes colour: there is a flash, an impossibly sharp stab of pain, and the pattern glows green.
"It means you are wholly mine," the Dark Lord whispers, and Bellatrix screams as her world explodes in pleasure.
She would have fallen on her knees again, if her lord had not caught her with a suspension spell that leaves her hanging in mid-air, shaking and gasping. Finally, he lowers her down on the floor. She lies on her back, dizzy and blissful, but she still manages to say what must be said.
"Thank you, my lord," she rasps.
He nods, obviously pleased with her. Once again, she has not failed him.
Soon after, he leaves her to meet with other, inferior servants. She does not begrudge them this, not now. She has what they will never have. She has a mark that belongs to her, and her only.
Bellatrix rests in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the new mark carved into her skin. Two snakes, tangled together, fangs sunken into each other's skin. Impossible to see where one begins and the other ends.
She has always had a purpose, she has always been powerful, but now it is visible for all to see. Truth made into flesh.
She runs a finger over her collarbone and smiles as desire stirs again.
This entry was originally posted at http://miss-morland.dreamwidth.org/88322.html. You may comment there, if you like.