tarie
in
sunandsmut
Fic for Sise5!
TO: Sise5
TITLE: Desecration
AUTHOR: sionnain
PAIRING: Bellatrix/Rodolphus
SUMMARY: Upon the high altar, two figures carry out a travesty of worship while the night watches from beyond.
RATING: MA
WARNINGS: Slight knife-play, very strong elements of blasphemy. Please be warned that if you are easily offended by such, you may not like this at all.
AN: Thanks to K. for the beta. Sise5, I hope you like this, and I do hope you’re not offended!
O my God, what must a soul be like when it is in this state! It longs to be all one tongue with which to praise the Lord. It utters a thousand pious follies, in a continuous endeavor to please Him who thus possesses it.--Saint Theresa of Avila
Desecration
The moonlight filters through the stained-glass windows of the church, a cold spill on the dusty floors. Upon the high altar, two figures carry out a travesty of worship while the night watches from beyond.
Rodolphus has her on her back, her long dark hair fanning out and falling over the altar, her arms raised over her head and crossed at the wrist. She looks like a sacrificial maiden on the tomb, albeit one dressed in black instead of virginal white, with Jezebel’s smile instead of the Madonna’s curving her lips.
“You going to use that, Lestrange, or brandish it around some more?” She licks her lips, a tempting feast of succulent flesh and writhing hips, her limpid eyes glimmering with heat and challenge.
The knife he holds above her shines in the flickering candlelight; Rodolphus smiles and it feels like the blade, curved and sharp. The silver is slightly softened by the reflected light, just as his features are likely calmed somewhat by warmth. Rodolphus smiles with his eyes while he makes men scream, and he knows this is why Bella has always wanted him.
“Shhh, my pretty girl. This is a sacred place, do you not understand?” He uses the knife on her, cutting away the dark black robes, keeping her anchored to the altar with a binding charm. The knife traces slow patterns down the pure-white skin of her body.
“Oh, I understand,” she murmurs, watching him, feeling the delicious scrape of the knife as it teases the hardened peaks of her nipples. All around her the air sighs with quiet sorrow; there is old magic in a church, lingering traces of the rituals performed therein, and it knows this is wrong.
Somewhere in the graveyard adjacent to the church, a body lies sprawled half-hidden in the bushes, the vicar whom they came to kill on Voldemort’s orders. His cassock is stained with blood not of his God, but his own.
“Will you confess your sins to me?” Rodolphus asks her, hands following the slow path of the blade, rubbing down the faint red lines left in the wake of the steel.
Bella arches her back as much as she is able; he is gifted with binding magic, Rodolphus, and the charm allows for very little give. “Oh, yes,” she moans, and the votives flicker as her sigh caresses the flames.
His fingers are hard between her legs as he rubs her, as she writhes for him, body bowed in exquisite pleasure. He slides one inside and the sound of her cries bounces off the stone walls and twists elegantly, rising towards the ceiling like some half-mad prayer.
“The ecstasy of Bellatrix Black,” Rodolphus murmurs with a laugh, and she glares at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her pleasure abating somewhat, the knife-edge urgency dulled by her orgasm.
“There is nothing holy about me, Lestrange,” she says softly. Her tongue licks at her lips again, slowly, obscenely. Rodolphus fancies he catches the scent of apples in the air.
He smirks at her and runs his blunt fingers over her breasts; her nipples harden once more beneath the caress. He loosens the charm holding her still, just a little, because he likes the way she thrashes there on the altar. He almost tells her she reminds him of Eve in the garden, but that’s not true, not really.
His eyes stray to the Mark on her arm, black lines both elegant and unforgiving. No, she is not Eve.
She is the serpent.
“You tempt me, Bella, did you know that?” He works her body until she is on the precipice, nearly there, almost tumbling downwards into pleasure-soaked oblivion. Instead, he pulls his hands away from her warm body and watches her, liking the way red stains her flesh, feeling his blood in slow pulses as his desire builds.
Her long fingers are curled into her palms; he can see the faintest trace of blood on her hands. “You have the stigmata,” he murmurs, drawing off his cloak, fingers reaching for the buttons of his pants. “You’re a saint after all, is that it?”
She mocks him with her eyes, but her breath is still rapid and quick, wanting. Rodolphus climbs on top of her, spreading his body over hers, releasing the charms that bind her legs. Almost immediately, her long limbs rise and encircle him, heels pressing into his back.
He smiles beatifically down at her as she pushes her hips against him, rubs the warm-wet of her cunt against his swollen cock. “Rodolphus,” she hisses, just like the snake he’s likened her too, and it makes him laugh a little.
“Oh, Bella. So demanding. Isn’t patience a virtue?” His hips move, too, because he can’t help himself. What man could, with sin personified spread beneath him, naked and eager and willing?
Sin is always willing. He ducks his head and sucks her cherry-red nipple into his mouth, like it’s communion and he’s going to be saved.
“I have no virtues, Lestrange. Only vices.” She is moving faster, and her body is trembling, and he can feel the clench-and-release of the muscles in her thighs wrapped around him. He slides the tip of his cock against her and pushes, gently.
“Damn you, release my arms,” she whines, and he scrambles with shaking fingers to find his wand, tossed so carelessly aside. He quickly speaks the charm and she’s free, her hands stained with blood grasping his shoulders like a benediction.
Her nails are painful in his skin, scratching like nails. He fucks her, hard and fast, sliding in and out of her wetness with an almost maniacal desire. The world seems to whirl around him, her breathy cries and whispered encouragement echo in his ears like a chorus.
Rodolphus looks up at the image of Christ on the cross, eyes downcast, as if he’s ashamed. It makes Rodolphus push harder, makes him bite Bella’s neck until he feels the tender flesh tear. He thinks of Voldemort’s words when he knelt before the Dark Lord, eager to serve.
I will give you dominion over death.
Rodolphus bites Bellatrix again, thrilling to the sound of her cries. He bites her nipples between his teeth, he rubs at her clit with sweat-soaked fingers, he pushes her closer and urges her to come in his lust-roughened voice.
She does, like a spark turning to flame, screaming out at last in ecstasy. Her muscles contract and pull around him and he loses his mind, and the light breaks behind his eyes in indigo and violet as he comes inside of her.
When he is able to see again, he’s lying on top of her, covered in sweat and breathing harshly. He raises his head and kisses her, the sweetest caress he’s yet bestowed upon her, and something makes him look to the shadow-shrouded corner at the rear of the sanctuary.
He thinks he sees a figure, shrouded in darkness blacker than the shadows themselves, watching. For a moment he thinks Voldemort has followed them there, has watched as they desecrated this place of holy worship.
There’s a strange, clarion sound in his ears, and Rodolphus looks away and down at Bella’s face. The muscles of her face are languid, like water. Her eyes shine with tears in the muted light; dark black and shimmering like an onyx with a diamond trapped within. She lifts on one hand and caresses his cheek, lightly, her smile sweet and tender. She looks like a saint, now, like Madonna bestowing her favors on a favored penitent.
“Rodolphus,” she murmurs, her voice quiet and elated. Even the Queen of Heaven would envy that voice, that look of utter serenity.
Rodolphus thinks he hears the clarion voice laughing in his mind as he kisses her again. He doesn’t think it was Voldemort watching in the dark, not anymore.
TITLE: Desecration
AUTHOR: sionnain
PAIRING: Bellatrix/Rodolphus
SUMMARY: Upon the high altar, two figures carry out a travesty of worship while the night watches from beyond.
RATING: MA
WARNINGS: Slight knife-play, very strong elements of blasphemy. Please be warned that if you are easily offended by such, you may not like this at all.
AN: Thanks to K. for the beta. Sise5, I hope you like this, and I do hope you’re not offended!
O my God, what must a soul be like when it is in this state! It longs to be all one tongue with which to praise the Lord. It utters a thousand pious follies, in a continuous endeavor to please Him who thus possesses it.--Saint Theresa of Avila
Desecration
The moonlight filters through the stained-glass windows of the church, a cold spill on the dusty floors. Upon the high altar, two figures carry out a travesty of worship while the night watches from beyond.
Rodolphus has her on her back, her long dark hair fanning out and falling over the altar, her arms raised over her head and crossed at the wrist. She looks like a sacrificial maiden on the tomb, albeit one dressed in black instead of virginal white, with Jezebel’s smile instead of the Madonna’s curving her lips.
“You going to use that, Lestrange, or brandish it around some more?” She licks her lips, a tempting feast of succulent flesh and writhing hips, her limpid eyes glimmering with heat and challenge.
The knife he holds above her shines in the flickering candlelight; Rodolphus smiles and it feels like the blade, curved and sharp. The silver is slightly softened by the reflected light, just as his features are likely calmed somewhat by warmth. Rodolphus smiles with his eyes while he makes men scream, and he knows this is why Bella has always wanted him.
“Shhh, my pretty girl. This is a sacred place, do you not understand?” He uses the knife on her, cutting away the dark black robes, keeping her anchored to the altar with a binding charm. The knife traces slow patterns down the pure-white skin of her body.
“Oh, I understand,” she murmurs, watching him, feeling the delicious scrape of the knife as it teases the hardened peaks of her nipples. All around her the air sighs with quiet sorrow; there is old magic in a church, lingering traces of the rituals performed therein, and it knows this is wrong.
Somewhere in the graveyard adjacent to the church, a body lies sprawled half-hidden in the bushes, the vicar whom they came to kill on Voldemort’s orders. His cassock is stained with blood not of his God, but his own.
“Will you confess your sins to me?” Rodolphus asks her, hands following the slow path of the blade, rubbing down the faint red lines left in the wake of the steel.
Bella arches her back as much as she is able; he is gifted with binding magic, Rodolphus, and the charm allows for very little give. “Oh, yes,” she moans, and the votives flicker as her sigh caresses the flames.
His fingers are hard between her legs as he rubs her, as she writhes for him, body bowed in exquisite pleasure. He slides one inside and the sound of her cries bounces off the stone walls and twists elegantly, rising towards the ceiling like some half-mad prayer.
“The ecstasy of Bellatrix Black,” Rodolphus murmurs with a laugh, and she glares at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her pleasure abating somewhat, the knife-edge urgency dulled by her orgasm.
“There is nothing holy about me, Lestrange,” she says softly. Her tongue licks at her lips again, slowly, obscenely. Rodolphus fancies he catches the scent of apples in the air.
He smirks at her and runs his blunt fingers over her breasts; her nipples harden once more beneath the caress. He loosens the charm holding her still, just a little, because he likes the way she thrashes there on the altar. He almost tells her she reminds him of Eve in the garden, but that’s not true, not really.
His eyes stray to the Mark on her arm, black lines both elegant and unforgiving. No, she is not Eve.
She is the serpent.
“You tempt me, Bella, did you know that?” He works her body until she is on the precipice, nearly there, almost tumbling downwards into pleasure-soaked oblivion. Instead, he pulls his hands away from her warm body and watches her, liking the way red stains her flesh, feeling his blood in slow pulses as his desire builds.
Her long fingers are curled into her palms; he can see the faintest trace of blood on her hands. “You have the stigmata,” he murmurs, drawing off his cloak, fingers reaching for the buttons of his pants. “You’re a saint after all, is that it?”
She mocks him with her eyes, but her breath is still rapid and quick, wanting. Rodolphus climbs on top of her, spreading his body over hers, releasing the charms that bind her legs. Almost immediately, her long limbs rise and encircle him, heels pressing into his back.
He smiles beatifically down at her as she pushes her hips against him, rubs the warm-wet of her cunt against his swollen cock. “Rodolphus,” she hisses, just like the snake he’s likened her too, and it makes him laugh a little.
“Oh, Bella. So demanding. Isn’t patience a virtue?” His hips move, too, because he can’t help himself. What man could, with sin personified spread beneath him, naked and eager and willing?
Sin is always willing. He ducks his head and sucks her cherry-red nipple into his mouth, like it’s communion and he’s going to be saved.
“I have no virtues, Lestrange. Only vices.” She is moving faster, and her body is trembling, and he can feel the clench-and-release of the muscles in her thighs wrapped around him. He slides the tip of his cock against her and pushes, gently.
“Damn you, release my arms,” she whines, and he scrambles with shaking fingers to find his wand, tossed so carelessly aside. He quickly speaks the charm and she’s free, her hands stained with blood grasping his shoulders like a benediction.
Her nails are painful in his skin, scratching like nails. He fucks her, hard and fast, sliding in and out of her wetness with an almost maniacal desire. The world seems to whirl around him, her breathy cries and whispered encouragement echo in his ears like a chorus.
Rodolphus looks up at the image of Christ on the cross, eyes downcast, as if he’s ashamed. It makes Rodolphus push harder, makes him bite Bella’s neck until he feels the tender flesh tear. He thinks of Voldemort’s words when he knelt before the Dark Lord, eager to serve.
I will give you dominion over death.
Rodolphus bites Bellatrix again, thrilling to the sound of her cries. He bites her nipples between his teeth, he rubs at her clit with sweat-soaked fingers, he pushes her closer and urges her to come in his lust-roughened voice.
She does, like a spark turning to flame, screaming out at last in ecstasy. Her muscles contract and pull around him and he loses his mind, and the light breaks behind his eyes in indigo and violet as he comes inside of her.
When he is able to see again, he’s lying on top of her, covered in sweat and breathing harshly. He raises his head and kisses her, the sweetest caress he’s yet bestowed upon her, and something makes him look to the shadow-shrouded corner at the rear of the sanctuary.
He thinks he sees a figure, shrouded in darkness blacker than the shadows themselves, watching. For a moment he thinks Voldemort has followed them there, has watched as they desecrated this place of holy worship.
There’s a strange, clarion sound in his ears, and Rodolphus looks away and down at Bella’s face. The muscles of her face are languid, like water. Her eyes shine with tears in the muted light; dark black and shimmering like an onyx with a diamond trapped within. She lifts on one hand and caresses his cheek, lightly, her smile sweet and tender. She looks like a saint, now, like Madonna bestowing her favors on a favored penitent.
“Rodolphus,” she murmurs, her voice quiet and elated. Even the Queen of Heaven would envy that voice, that look of utter serenity.
Rodolphus thinks he hears the clarion voice laughing in his mind as he kisses her again. He doesn’t think it was Voldemort watching in the dark, not anymore.