A/N: This is just a tiny little Bellamort one-shot. I'd lost the motivation to write for a long time and this is the first non-academic thing I've written in over a year! I don't know if I like it so feedback would be much appreciated. Thank you! :)
Red. The colour of blood. The colour of lust. Bloodlust. Lust for her?
She thinks she catches a glimpse of it burning in His eyes, fiery bright, appraising her naked form, dazzling white in the light of a thousand stars.
A ghost's breath, the ghost of her long-lost sanity perhaps, presents itself in the form of a night-time breeze, unsettling wild tangles of hair, caressing her body. She shivers
at its touch yet does not break her steady gaze into the eyes of her Master.
Two bottomless pools of fire, scorching her, the flames lapping at her heart and mind.
Mind?
She'd had one once.
The all-consuming heat of his gaze is drowning her. She yearns for Him to speak; to touch; to possess.
Her. His. Most faithful. Always.
After an apparent eternity of this blissful torture, He smiles. A devil's smile.
Raising the wand, He hisses the curse;
Unforgivable. Beautiful.
The pain is ecstasy; she yearns to FEEL, to relish in the physical reminder of His power; to be His and His alone.
To feel alive.
She screams, half-laughing, her shattered mind no longer able to distinguish between pain and pleasure.
(Was there really such a difference between the two anyway?)
He lifts the wand, nodding his approval, a smirk upon the lipless mouth.
Her mouth; blood red. Fixed in a permanent pout of passion.
For him?
Always.
He runs long fingers through her mane of hair. Wild. Unruly. Untameable. Just like her.
The white spider of His hand comes to rest on her flushed cheek. Hot. Surprisingly soft. As if to compensate for this uncharacteristic gesture of affection, he flexes His
fingers, embedding the nails into her flesh, drawing blood...
(Drawing a sigh of contentment from her pretty, dirty little mouth).
And then He takes her. (For she is His to take)
He enters her with quick, forceful thrusts, satisfied in the knowledge that He's hurting her quite as much as He's thrilling her, pinning her down by the wrists, still bruised
from their last encounter.
A frenzied blur of brutality and it's over.
"You may dress," He hisses coldly, turning away from her, having no desire to see the hopeless longing and devotion in her eyes. Pitiful creature. But useful.
"My Lord..." she breathes, hardly audible, the magnitude of her emotions rendering her barely capable of speech.
"Bella."
The simple reply. He leans down, brushes her hand with his almost-lips and leaves.
His faithful little pet.