A/N: for Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Pairing: Bellatrix/Voldemort
Prompts: "Some people just want to watch the world burn." -Donnie Darko, bruises, fragile, silk, careless whispers
Rating: M, some smutty and dark themes
She is only fragile when he wants her to be.
The others snicker behind her back, whisper in ghost's voices what a harlot she must be. The Dark Lord's whore. She bears the epithet with pride. He has chosen her. Can any of them say the same? When she catches them, pointing, laughing, gossip twisting their faces, her wand tip prods them between the clavicles, as she whispers Crucio with loving sweetness.
"My Bellatrix," he hisses behind her and she whirls, in a flurry of black silk skirts, to see him there, his hand cupping her jaw, fingers tightening around her throat. The bruises stand out like a brand, and she thrills to it.
"My Lord," she whispers back, as he takes her to bed. He is never gentle, but somehow, being pounded into the bed or against the wall until she's lightheaded and the bruises stain her hips like bird's wings is more than she can possibly imagine.
I love you, she thinks, but never speaks. She knows he can read it in her thoughts, she always leaves her mind bare to him. But he never speaks of it, and truthfully, she'd never want him to.
When the bedroom door closes behind them, she is herself again. Crazed, dark eyes glittering with madness and power, her wand flashing with his commands. Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's second-in-command. She can break anyone, the Imperius Curse and Cruciatus curse wreathing together in a lacy, impenetrable fog. The others fear her, curse her as quietly as they dare, but she cares nothing for them.
She has her Lord, and she is content. May all the others burn.