By: Lena (Airelle Vilka)
Rating: M for language and sexual content.
The meeting has ended, and all the other Death Eaters have gone. I alone remain, standing before His throne in the torchlight. A flick of his finger, and what clothes I have fall to the floor. It feels like shedding skin. Out of her corner, Nagini watches with pale, slitted eyes. She enjoys seeing two things spill from humans: clothes and blood. I like to think of her as my baser self.
He moves his head slightly, but I only see His shadow. I do not look up at Him, not yet. I am a proud Black and a proud Lestrange, and I lower my gaze for no other.
"Bella," He says, and now, I look at Him. Bella, yes. It is fitting, because I am still beautiful. Age has done little to ruin me.
I walk up the little steps of the dais, bare feet sliding on the blood that curtains the stone. A Muggle died here tonight, and another will die tomorrow. Our masked coterie needs entertainment.
"My Lord," I breathe to Him. Over the years, I have learned how to keep my voice from wavering. In the darkness, He nods, and I am admitted into His embrace, long fingers sliding over my back. I spread my thighs, a leg on each side of the throne, and lower myself.
Carefully. Carefully, now. Into the abyss.
He has told me about the lake of the Inferii. One day, I will see it for myself. So many people lie there, so many testaments to His power.
I sheath Him inside me. We grow still, and I think: I wonder what You were like as a child.
And then I remember. When we first met, He was young, and not yet what He is now. At that time, He was still only a man, in all ways but one. I relieved Him of that, on a cold December night.
So, in actuality, I was the last to see Him as a child.
That warms me.
His tongue darts out to lick my nipples. It is cold in this dungeon.
I remain still, stifling a giggle as He releases me, lifts me, slams me down again. He never speaks a word, but I know He enjoys it. Simple psychology of reinforcement. We have done this so often, and gods, had I missed it, all those years in Azkaban.
My thoughts catch, untangle. I watch Him, carefully, from under hooded eyes, and squeeze my muscles around Him, feeling the response, the pulse, the dance.
Arch the back, Bella, I order myself. I don't care if it hurts. Give Him a show.
I have asked Him to place me under the Imperius Curse when He does this. The Death Eaters say it is complete abandon, like that drug ecstasy. But He refuses, and I'm not about to debase myself by asking my husband.
Slam. My hair brushes my back, jolting my nerves. His hands grip my ribs, His fingers bloody. I don't remember if the blood is mine, or that Muggle's. I breathe in deeply now, my insides hurting. He is strong, even without His magic. Oh yes, this is all of Him. Right there.
He is sheer brilliance, unfathomable, unparalleled, as devoted to Dark Magic as I am to Him. When He fucks me, a pure-blood who bears His Mark, straddling Him and His throne, I taste perfection. No one else can boast of the same.
Did He not call me His most loyal follower? Did He not save me, and only me, in the Department of Mysteries? Did He not, just now, spend His cold Self inside me in one final, decisive thrust? He will not speak now, but I will bet all the world that if He did, His voice would be hoarse.
I did that. I alone.
I am Bellatrix, His beautiful warrior maid. The first, the last, the only.
I rise, stumble, and recede into the darkness. I feel His nod behind me, caressing my back. It is all the proof I need.
I have Him.
Author's Note: I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, reeling from words that had come to me in my sleep. I tried my best to let them all spill here. If something doesn't seem inspired, blame it on my memory. And I know this is darker than my other stories. What do you expect-- it's You-Know-Who!