(no subject)
Title: Stockholm Syndrome
Summary: "He never turns the lights on."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: ..forgot to count.
Rating/Warnings: R, non-con
Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort
A/N: There was stuff here, but then it went away. This is creepy and squicky. I'm going to St. Louis now.
He never turns the lights on.
The door opens. She opens her weary eyes, sees nothing but a silhouette. Her sleep-addled brain completes the picture. From somewhere in a haze she whispers “Tom”. He sweeps in.
The door closes. Her room is as dark as a cave. Not even sunlight makes it through the heavy velvet curtains, forget moonlight. She can only hear him for now. She hears his robes drag the floor between careful measured steps. His buttons make the softest of noises as he undoes them all by hand, but she never fails to hear them. She hears the fabric rustle against his skin as he slides his garments off. She stays still and quiet as she can, but she can’t stop hearing her heart race.
He pulls back the sheets and slides into bed. He never says anything and he doesn’t respond to resistance. Yet he’s always, in a strange way, considerate and polite. She still doesn’t understand this. He carefully removes her nightgown and places it on the floor. She shivers slightly when the chill first hits her. The shivers don’t really wrack her until he slowly moves one practiced hand down her body. Another follows, running down familiar curves, tracing up the inside of her thigh, coming to rest over her, over his own most private property.
Let us leave them for a moment and examine their history. This has been going on since she first came into his service. She can’t quite remember how it started, why she didn’t fight back. He was once very handsome and she very eager to please; perhaps that was part of the reason. It became something she did just because she did it. Almost a reflex.
And it continues, some fifteen years on, now that she is free. But now, she welcomes it, and now, he talks to her. His voice is rolling, powerful, just barely hissing. She doesn’t ever talk back. It is not a conversation; it is a speech. He talks and talks and he tells her all his plans, how he is to take over, with her by his side. But it is bigger than the both of them, all wrapped up in blood and purity and power.
And everything she missed for too many long years, all the pain of separation reinforced by every cursed night behind cold stone, everything that she craved is there in that moment, soothing her twisted brain. If anyone else knew, they’d think her mad. She knows that she is, but she no longer cares.
And she doesn’t notice or care that the hands clutching at her are like cold white spiders, or that the eyes she’s staring into are a snake’s. She’s not seeing that. Her whole world is his glory and his majesty, and she believes. She believes it all, completely. And she comes, shaking and crying in pseudo-religious ecstasy.
Just like that, he leaves. Just throws his robes on and walks out. She’s torn, every single time. Torn between hatred and longing and revulsion and love. But it all fades under the glow of just being in his presence again.
Shortly afterwards, Rodolphus steps in and flicks his wand. The lights come on. He tries to claim what he thinks is his, voice trying to boom but failing pathetically. She laughs him out of the room.
Summary: "He never turns the lights on."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: ..forgot to count.
Rating/Warnings: R, non-con
Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort
A/N: There was stuff here, but then it went away. This is creepy and squicky. I'm going to St. Louis now.
He never turns the lights on.
The door opens. She opens her weary eyes, sees nothing but a silhouette. Her sleep-addled brain completes the picture. From somewhere in a haze she whispers “Tom”. He sweeps in.
The door closes. Her room is as dark as a cave. Not even sunlight makes it through the heavy velvet curtains, forget moonlight. She can only hear him for now. She hears his robes drag the floor between careful measured steps. His buttons make the softest of noises as he undoes them all by hand, but she never fails to hear them. She hears the fabric rustle against his skin as he slides his garments off. She stays still and quiet as she can, but she can’t stop hearing her heart race.
He pulls back the sheets and slides into bed. He never says anything and he doesn’t respond to resistance. Yet he’s always, in a strange way, considerate and polite. She still doesn’t understand this. He carefully removes her nightgown and places it on the floor. She shivers slightly when the chill first hits her. The shivers don’t really wrack her until he slowly moves one practiced hand down her body. Another follows, running down familiar curves, tracing up the inside of her thigh, coming to rest over her, over his own most private property.
Let us leave them for a moment and examine their history. This has been going on since she first came into his service. She can’t quite remember how it started, why she didn’t fight back. He was once very handsome and she very eager to please; perhaps that was part of the reason. It became something she did just because she did it. Almost a reflex.
And it continues, some fifteen years on, now that she is free. But now, she welcomes it, and now, he talks to her. His voice is rolling, powerful, just barely hissing. She doesn’t ever talk back. It is not a conversation; it is a speech. He talks and talks and he tells her all his plans, how he is to take over, with her by his side. But it is bigger than the both of them, all wrapped up in blood and purity and power.
And everything she missed for too many long years, all the pain of separation reinforced by every cursed night behind cold stone, everything that she craved is there in that moment, soothing her twisted brain. If anyone else knew, they’d think her mad. She knows that she is, but she no longer cares.
And she doesn’t notice or care that the hands clutching at her are like cold white spiders, or that the eyes she’s staring into are a snake’s. She’s not seeing that. Her whole world is his glory and his majesty, and she believes. She believes it all, completely. And she comes, shaking and crying in pseudo-religious ecstasy.
Just like that, he leaves. Just throws his robes on and walks out. She’s torn, every single time. Torn between hatred and longing and revulsion and love. But it all fades under the glow of just being in his presence again.
Shortly afterwards, Rodolphus steps in and flicks his wand. The lights come on. He tries to claim what he thinks is his, voice trying to boom but failing pathetically. She laughs him out of the room.