Work Text:
Last, Best Lieutenant
He enjoys pushing her. Nothing he does decreases her loyalty, nor her desire and though it is pleasurable to have a daughter of the noble house of Black, not merely willing, but desperate to play his bitch, but ultimately he is the Dark Lord, he will shortly rule the world and will have his pick of beautiful women, willing or unwilling depending his mood. And ultimately, enjoyable though having her writhing and arching and moaning under him is, it is simply more enjoyable to push as far as possible, further even than he can reasonably expect of one of his most loyal Deatheaters, and watch her fail to snap it. The power of it is an intoxicating aphrodisiac. And the fact that she belongs to someone else, is just the icing on the cake.
He has never actually ordered her to her knees at a meeting, but that is more about protecting his modesty than hers. There is simply no way to maintain an order of powerful aloofness in the throws of orgasm. At the moment of release, he will look just as ridiculous and vulnerable as anyone else. Instead, he enjoys sly little digs about the failures of her family – her sister, Wormtail’s friend and the girl who married the werewolf, about the fact that her marriage was to a family of significantly lesser calibre than her little sister’s match, about the fact that she has not done her bit for continuing the pure blood line. He insults her looks and her intelligence, intimating that the woman she is now is lesser than the one who went to Azkaban for him, broken. He makes sly asides that imply she is only useful to him as his cock-warmer. And he is sure that some of the others have picked up on it. He would stake his wand that Severus at least knows.
And in private, when she is already blotchy and shaking with humiliation, he orders her into the most demeaning positions his mind can conjure. He has her on her knees or on all fours like an animal, round arse in the air. He has her naked and begging while he remains fully clothed. He spills his seed in her hair or on her face, or on the floor and makes her lick it up. He stretches her open with her own wand. He fucks her until she is loose and sloppy and then mocks her for being damaged goods. He crucios her while he is inside her simply to feel her spasm around him. Sometimes, when he is in a particularly sadistic mood, he feeds Nagini inside her cunt or her arse, making the snake wriggle around until Bella cracks and comes, walls clenching around the dry scaly body. He makes her thank him for it all.
It makes his blood run hot when she flushes a painful, shamed scarlet. He lives to see the tears that he doubts another has the power to make her shed.
And nothing ever changes. She never refuses to come to his rooms, though the one thing he has never so much as hinted at is that she would be punished should she make that refusal. In fact he likes to remind her how willing she is, how it is her choice to allow him to use her this way. She never so much as argues, never suggests that she wishes he would disrobe and lie with her. She never fails to come as many times as he wishes her to.
Sometimes he wonders why. He wonders if her loyalty to him and his cause has become synonomous with attraction in the addled mess of her Azkaban damaged brain, or if she simply fears him or is in so much awe of him that he can’t say no. But he doesn’t really care. He simply continues with his game, wondering if he could ever push too far. It never occurs to him to wonder what he’d do without her.