Author: Otaku Neko Ninja Miko Tenshi
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine; however, all original work belongs to me.
—For The Dance Competition (mambo); The Character & Phobia Competition (Bellatrix/atychiphobia);Open Category Competition (Fanon); The Greek Mythology Mega Prompt Challenge (Aphrodite); Harry Potter Chapter Competition (The Death Eaters); Pick a Card, Any Card Challenge (Eight of Hearts); One of Every Letter [Challenge] (J); Harry Potter Fandom Chemistry Challenge (Be, V); As Much As You Can Competition; FanFicWriMo Challenge
Happy birthday, Mun!—
WARNING: DIFFERENT WRITING STYLE, MURDER, SLIGHTLY GRUESOME DETAILS, PERVERSITY, CRIME, SEXUAL THEMES, TORTURE, ANIMAL DEATH, CHEATING, SEX, SMUT, HINTED ATYCHIPHOBIA (fear of failure)
The instant that he took her hand and grazed her knuckles, Bellatrix knew that Voldemort was going to be an extraordinary leader. And, with one show of his unrivalled confidence and a single glance from those sin-coloured eyes, the wild woman was undeniably sucked into his perilous-spiralling-madmadmad descent into darkness...
She wasn't always his right-hand woman, you know – of course she wasn't: back then, Bellatrix Lestrange (neé Black) was no more than a pretty face in a sea of pretty faces, a curvy spouse among lean men, a rouge-lipped beast with a taste for gothic attire. In any other person's variation of the scenario, it would have been a relief to be a featureless follower of someone immensely powerful lest they turn on you, but Bellatrix Lestrange was Bellatrix formerly of the Black House, and she was a proud woman who deserved recognition, dammit...!
She earned her rank, however, and as soon as those red (bloodbloodyblood) eyes scanned over her with a lazy rake, the ravenette knew that her work had paid off.
Occasionally, Bella forgot that she was married, in spite of the band that ringed a finger on her left hand. On some nights, she would fold back her sleeve and twist the ohpretty wedding reminder, never removing it but never having it all the way on.
Then her Lord called for her and she lost recollection again, brushing her Dark Mark instead; she had a job to do.
The impending rise to power of their legion made Bellatrix's skin crackle with energy, lightning sweeping over her flesh as she watched mudbloods – filthycreaturestheyare – fall before her master. Their pathetic bodies crumpled to the Unforgiveables (she loves that word), their discarded-dollness bowing to their superior with their snapped bones and somewhat twisted limbs and minds that had been crushed cell by cell in a brilliant flash that made her shoulders shudder in delight...
All the while, Voldemort frowned in distaste at their lack of fight, and instructed her to move the corpses so that they didn't taint his robes. She'd rather die than touch a muggleborn, but she flexed under his will when he cooed the order with a touch of fondness for his loyal subject. Instead of using her wand, she hiked up her dress (did she flash some of her supple calf on purpose, she wonders? 'Definitely.') and stepped towards a writhing excuse for a witch. Their terror was delicious, and she gave them one more malicious grin before her boot smashed into their skull.
A little distance away, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named watched fondly as she danced joyously on the other woman's frontal lobe, pirouetting to curtsey and gesture him through the cleared path with a maniacal expression.
Shortcake saucer resting in her lap, the crazed lady laughed riotously at the crude crack a drunkard made at her in passing, uncaring for how she was eating a fancy cake from a fancy plate in the not-so-fancy location of a park at night. She wasn't offended in the least – instead, she batted her lashes and coyly flicked her eyes down at the creamy cleavage exposed by her low-neckline. A seemingly-delicate hand smoothed down her dress, the man's eyes eagerly following it's path down her body, until it suddenly dove behind her lower-back.
There was green, and the muggle was no more.
Bellatrix lowered her wand and spat on his ashes, "Vile being.", and then flounced away from the smashed dessert and shattered china – her Lord was holding a meeting soon, and she wouldn't miss it for the world.
...At least, that was her mindframe before she was notified of her master's status. For casting her superior off his throne, even if she didn't believe it to be true, Bellatrix had a surge of relentless venom for anyone bearing the legendary surname "Potter".
The Longbottom family paid the price of Voldemort's failure and Bellatrix's hysteria.
No-one expected her to break out of Azkaban.
Dementors were horrific monsters, Bellatrix allowed herself the comfort to admit with a downward turn of her lips. The parasites thrived off despair and negative emotions, always leaving her short of breath and with a hollow sensation in her stomach that she wasn't so happy to equate to panic that anyone but her would be familiar with. To her, it wasn't panic so much as an echo of a synonym that she couldn't identify but still loathed with every fibre of her existence.
So she ran and never looked back, the cold stripping her first layer of skin but the freedom adding strength to her exhilarated soul.
She could never fail her master.
When Voldemort regained his body, there were none who felt so deeply about the matter as Bellatrix – her glee easily surpassed the wavering faith some Death Eaters had, and she voiced her euphoria in a bold manner that almost had a distant acquaintance gasping.
From her position, sank onto one knee, there's a flutter that makes her stomach floor twinge in a nauseous way at the silence that follows her statement. Her blood pressure elevates drastically as the sweat bullet of someone else slips down her neck.
Then there's a rough chuckle, and the Dark Lord motions for her to rise: "I'm glad you agree, Bella," he says with a smirk.
Neither of them miss the volt attraction that lances between them; still, she's faintly light-headed when he dismisses everyone else and beckons her with a single digit...
-x-
Upon entering her private chambers, the once-Black discovers three things that certainly weren't there before: a man, a woman, and a dog. She observes the trio, all unconscious and hung against the wall, and she's ready to wait for an explanation when she hears a magical lock click into place just before there's a presence hovering behind her.
"So, Bella," Voldemort drawls "I've heard that in my absence, you've become exceptionally apt at wielding three special spells. Pray tell, you've been practising?"
"Needless say," she purrs, looking back over her shoulder at him "that once I escaped Azkaban, I needed to, ah, dust up on my abilities."
Using her wand as an excuse, the alters her poise to pronounce her bosom/waist/hip alignment, taking a stance to demonstrate her work.
"Imperio," she almost yawns as she aims at the trim lady; the parody of a lap-dance makes her master snigger, the vibrations of the sound travelling from his chest into her; Bellatrix releases the curse in favour of moving onto the man.
A brief swish of her wand brings him to consciousness, before a red light inflicts the Crucio – his screams of agony make her shiver when she tilts back lightly, the immortal flanking her back taking the opportunity to rest his hands on her hips. The expanse of his chest pushes into her shoulder blades, his breath fanning over her ear as he absorbs the strong bawls. Planting her rump against his groin, Bellatrix bends forward to undo the curse and then re-cast it until the obese blob passes out because that's what's expected of her and because she isn't entirely unwilling.
Finally, there is the dog (admittedly, having had so much fun with her last victim, the Lestrange almost skipped it, revelling in the pressure her Lord was slowly rolling against her hide), and she wastes no time in yelling the final spell.
Positive that not both breathy moans came from her at the gorgeous blast of Avada Kedavra, the feral witch rotates in her master's hold, from where she gazes up with hooded eyes.
She didn't know how they ended up in her bed, her milky thighs clamped around Voldemort's hips as he ploughed into her, but she couldn't care less unless that was what amplified their rutting (sight-sound-smell-taste-touch-ohmy) to the point where her bedspring fractured and her breasts were bruised and her pleasured wails were undeniably broadcasted throughout the entirety of their base, uncaring that her husband could hear her and that they both knew she would be alone before dawn.
Anything to avoid disappointing him.
(Word count: 1,401)
*Chosen prompts: Bellamort love; atychiphobia; fanon pairing; write about adultery; write about a Death Eater; bonus, write a Bellamort fic; Bellatrix, Voldemort*
Author's Note: And that's why I don't post smut: I need practice, and lots of it DX
This new regularity with posting is still a bit foreign to me, so forgive the suffering grammar and tense change at the end. I also hope that I did a decent job with Bellatrix, but criticism is always welcome so long as I understand where I went wrong; mistakes with the canon would be best pointed out also.
Now that the basics are covered, I'd like to inform you that I will most likely be unactive next week: for those of you who don't know, I have a dog who is older than me in human years. She's always been an amazing friend and lovely companion, and she's an incredibly comforting presence in my life. However, she is going blind, and she's become uncharacteristically weak over the last couple of months; as a result, my mother has decided to not extend her suffering, and we will be putting her down this Wednesday instead of waiting until December as originally drafted. Because of this, I'd like to request that you give Derry your blessings so that she may have a wonderful afterlife with all of my past pets. Until the 12th, we will be showering her in excessive affection and saying our final goodbyes -heart-
-ONNMT