Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter series.

Warnings: Bellamort likes to play rough and it probably isn't requited. But we can always hope.


"All is fair in love and war."

~:~:~

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair."


He pushes her head against the wall as his long fingers claw their way through her matted hair. Her toes curl as his fingers curl against the back of her neck. She doesn't scream when her skull collides with what will surely leave a migraine in a few hours. But now that his fingers press against her skin, she cries out.

"My lord," she breathes in labored gasps as her body fights to pull itself closer to his.

He pushes her into the creaking mattress but the feathers do not soften the grip of his hands around her wrists as he pins her arms above her head.

"Bellatrix," he snarls with her earlobe between his teeth. "Did I not make it clear that silence was your only chance at submission?"

Bellatrix does not reply, her speech stunted by his cold breath along her jawline.

He bites down harder until he draws blood and then harder until she screams in that perverse way of hers; her pleasure at the agony he causes her physical being.

His fingers tighten against the blood that pulses through her veins. Her hands grow white, whiter than her usual aristocratic pallor. He knows that if he is patient he can watch her die limb by limb. But while he waits for her death to begin, the limbs he does not control begin to rise up against him, quite literally.

"Please, my lord."

He finds his eyes drawn to hers and her thoughts gleam through the lust that darkens her eyes.

"Bella, do not mistake your place," he hisses. "I am not concerned with what might pleasure us both. You are only here to satisfy those few human desires I have yet to dispel completely from my body."

Bellatrix whimpers but he knows she might as well be moaning.

He strikes her face. He strikes her face and tries to strike out the total devotion that radiates from her face like the sweat that clings to every inch of her body.

Tears well in her eyes as quickly as they did the first night he requested her assistance.

"My lord," Bellatrix begins, and he wonders where he found such an impudent servant. She tilts her chin into the crook of his neck. Her voice becomes a whisper, "It pleasures me only to satisfy you."

He grabs his wand from the nightstand and presses it under her chin still as he straddles her. The reflection of his eyes burns red in hers. His weight presses against her; their chests throbbing in syncopation with the other, he cannot tell where his anger concludes and where her longing begins. His lips twitch once around the Cruciatus Curse, but it would be too easy. She, his deranged and desperate mistress, would consider it an honor to writhe below him. She would not distinguish between pain and pleasure.

No, to truly torture his Bella, he will have to lower himself to her level and manipulate her emotions, raw and blatant as they are.

"But you do not satisfy me, Bella," he says.

He attacks her face with biting kisses and he can taste her tears beneath his tongue. He allows his tongue, his teeth to travel across further aching landscapes of his most faithful. And when he draws blood, this time, he knows her whimpers are genuinely fearful.

He caresses her face when he has finished tattooing her breasts with the indents of his teeth.

She continues to cry, but then Bellatrix often finds it impossible to control her emotional outpourings.

"You're lying," she sobs.

She sobs, true, but she sobs as one who knows past triumphs and will not quickly forget them or let him forget them.

His nails dig into the side of her face, but she retains her hysterical haughtiness.

"You're lying, my lord," she repeats. "I do please you. And if I do not satisfy you, I can. If only you would let me-"

He strikes her face again before throwing her to the floor. He leaves the bed and walks over to the mirror and leans his hands on the chest of drawers as he stares into the mirror.

Bellatrix lies tangled in her own bruising limbs and pride. Her face burns as her tears soak into the fresh wounds her master has torn into her skin. She has born many fleshly indignities for his sake; the Dark Mark and battle wounds she accepts like a warrior. But the scars from his more sordid appointments with her flesh Bellatrix can bear with dignity only if they are endured for the sake of his pleasure. To leave him hungry is to remain his favorite and only plaything. But to leave him hungry without ever first giving him fulfillment leaves Bellatrix blushing with shame.

Bella is not a girl fit to blush with shame.

If he will stand in the way of her satisfying him, then she will combat him like only a female warrior can. She pushes herself up from the floor and walks toward him, his front still away from her. As she approaches, however, he turns, and she hurls herself at him.

His back collides with the chest of drawers and his wand falls from his hand. In his moment of confusion, Bellatrix seizes her chance and seizes him.

There is a sharp intake of breath; this time, however, it does not belong to Bellatrix.

"Release me, Bella," he hisses through pants that rise and fall in rhythm with her fingers.

Bellatrix kneels before him but does not remove her hands, instead brings her lips to his waist. She kisses him, ever so gently and smiles into his skin where she knows he cannot see her happiness.

"I'm about to," she murmurs.

Her kisses wander lower, and as she grows closer her tongue slides from between her lips and flickers like a snake's against his flesh.

His hands grip helplessly at the furniture she has slammed him against.

"Bella."

It is a bit like a growl how he says her name, but underneath the growl there is a definite plea. Bellatrix laughs wildly into his skin, her lips trembling with mirth. He is anxious; but Bellatrix is not yet finished playing with her food.

Quite abruptly, it takes all of her willpower, Bellatrix stands and walks away. She begins to collect her clothes and has even begun to pull on her boots before there is a roar. Not any roar, but his roar.

"Impudent woman!" he screams.

Bellatrix bends over to lace up her boot.

When she rises, she shrugs.

"You deemed that I could not satisfy you, my lord. It seems you were correct."

Bellatrix knows she is dancing into the arms of danger, and the thought intoxicates her like madness.

"I would kill any other that dared greet Lord Voldemort with such cheek," he spits.

He steps closer, but Bellatrix merely bends over again to lace up the other boot.

"Yes, it's a good thing I have such nice cheeks," she remarks offhandedly.

She will die, surely he will kill her, but she doesn't care. He rushes at her, but there is no wand in his hand and suddenly his mouth crashes against hers and his thighs fight to separate hers and she wraps her legs around his and pulls herself to him while his hands claw up her back and into her hair and her hands twist behind his head and she screams the title she reserves only for him.

"Master. Master."

But he is lost in the sound of her name flying from his lips between forceful kisses.

They collapse, still entangled, onto the bed, his bed.

His bed and she is there and he is spent and for a moment he forgets that even lust is beneath him. For a moment, he worries only for the pureblood queen beneath him.

"Satisfied, my lord?"

She is so smug, and he will have to have to correct that delusion later. But for now, for now-

His hands stroke the length of her legs as he licks the sweat from between her thighs.

Bellatrix closes her eyes as her body continues to shudder in the aftermath of his proximity. In the space between her own sighs she hears a slow, guttural hissing. She recognizes the language as Parsletongue and the voice as her master's. Something swirls inside her chest and she knows it is something that he will never permit, never return. But she cannot help it and she doesn't care. For now she breathes to the sound of his native tongue and returns the murmurs with her own. His mouth moves up her stomach, to her breasts where he begins to tongue over the scars his previous feasting has incurred, to clean the battle wounds of his best lieutenant.


A/N: This may or may not turn into a series of Bellamort. Who knows? If reviews are love, are favorites lust? ;)