When He Held Me Close
The Dark Lord wants to believe that he has transcended the boundaries of humanity, but as he moans beneath your languorous licks and strokes, you know he lies. His skin yearns for contact, for touch, for pleasure, and when those are the things he requests on this night so humid, you do not refuse. You will never refuse, for when the Dark Lord brings rewards such as these, you thank him on bended knee.
His hands are spiders in your hair, twisting and tangling. He grips it like he is falling, and, mercy, it hurts when he pulls your head up and your eyes ache.
"You have done well, Severus," he says to you. "The man is dead. Potter's protector is dead."
You nod as much as his restraint will allow.
"Now swallow."
You never refuse.