After he brazenly declared his love for Bellatrix in front of his Death Eaters in order to make his intentions with her quite plain, Lord Voldemort began to fall into old habits with her. He didn't mean for it to start happening again, much as he had to admit to himself that he relished the physical sensations of it all. It just sort of… started happening. It was like instinct, like his body fell back into the rhythm of absorbing her at what ought to have been inopportune times and then releasing himself in ways that should have felt embarrassing or vulnerable. Instead, each time, Voldemort was left dizzy with satisfaction, breathless and sticky, and he could always read in Bellatrix's dark, flashing eyes that she knew.

The first time it happened again was at her parents' house, of all places. It was three days after the Death Eaters' meeting where he'd announced he loved her, and it was Druella's birthday. Bellatrix had dressed in a pretty black lace frock at Malfoy Manor and had tied her curls up into a knot atop her head, quietly informing Voldemort that she was going to celebrate her mother and curtsying politely to him. His stomach had stirred a little, and he'd glanced down at his own blue velvet robes where he sat in his sitting room. He'd freshly shaved his head and face today, and as he ground his teeth a little, he'd said rather firmly,

"I'm coming along."

Bellatrix had looked surprised but had nodded. Cygnus and Druella had been just as surprised to see him as Bellatrix had been to hear that he'd been coming. Voldemort had warded up the Black family home tightly, since he and Bellatrix were both wanted badly by Dumbledore and the Ministry. Once everyone had taken their seats at the fine mahogany dinner table, he'd glanced around, flicking up his eyebrows when he'd seen the way Druella and Cygnus seemed on edge. Word had gotten around quickly about what Voldemort had said at the meeting, and so Voldemort knew his old schoolmates were very much aware of how things had changed for their daughter as of late. He decided to try and diffuse things by raising his goblet of Elf-Made red wine and toasting Druella.

"May you have many happy birthdays to come, Druella. We wish you nothing but the best. Don't we, Bella?"

He flicked his eyes across the table then, and Bellatrix's lips fell open at the way he'd spoken. He knew why. We. She nodded quickly and then gave him a weak little smile, her lovely dark eyes shining, and she finally whispered,

"Happy birthday, Mum."

Dinner was braised rabbit in mustard sauce with shallots. It was delicious, though Voldemort found he could scarcely concentrate on eating it whilst he stared across the table at Bellatrix. The black lace dress she'd worn today showed her collarbone and neck, and since she'd pulled her hair up and back, her milky skin was all clearly exposed. Voldemort found his eyes dragging around her flesh, watching her move a little as she brought forkfuls of the rich rabbit meat to her mouth. She smiled and laughed a little at something her father said, washing down her bite of food, and Voldemort watched her delicate throat move as she swallowed.

His cock flushed through at that, and he felt himself go a little hard as he watched her talk and eat. Voldemort dragged the tines of his silver fork through the mustard sauce on his plate in slow little circles and caressed her with his gaze, working his eyes over her pile of dark curls, down over her lovely little smile and her narrow neck, across the angles and planes of her peeking chest. His breath quickened in his burning lungs, his cock straining in protest now with a bit of a rhythmic throb against the wool of his breeches.

"My Lord," he heard Cygnus Black say jovially then, and Voldemort jolted, snapping his attention to the side. He could feel that his cheeks were hot; surely they must be scarlet. Cygnus just flashed him a cautiously happy little look and asked carefully, "Druella and I hope you've been enjoying the De Clare firewhisky we gave you for your birthday?"

"Indeed," Voldemort nodded with a clip. "It is very fine stuff indeed, Cygnus. Very generous of you. Thank you."

"My Lord and I were just drinking some the night before last," Bellatrix said in a low, sibilant sort of voice, and when Voldemort looked back at her, he was suddenly thrown back to the way the two of them had sipped the amber liquid and murmured about a plan to take out some Muggles soon, and then they'd kissed until Bellatrix had dropped her glass on the floor and giggled like mad. Voldemort gulped now and nodded, and his voice was little more than a whisper as he affirmed,

"Bella, you like the De Clare, don't you? It's good and smoky."

She gave him a little smirk, and in that moment, he could tell that she knew. She knew that he was turned on right now, that he wanted her badly. She nibbled her lip for a minute as if remembering something, and then she mused softly,

"The De Clare is a good firewhisky, Master, because it is peppery and has a hint of ginger on the burn going down. My Lord knows well how I despise sweet drinks, and there isn't a hint of sweetness in the De Clare."

He blinked a few times then, ignoring the way Cygnus and Druella were just staring wide-eyed at their daughter and their master. He licked his lips and rather breathlessly agreed,

"No. You don't like sweet things."

And then it happened, without any sort of real warning. Bellatrix covered for him, mercifully. She rushed immediately into a new conversation with her parents as soon as it became obvious to her what was happening, because she was a good and loyal servant. She launched into an artificially earnest interrogation of her father about happenings at his work. Distantly, Voldemort could hear that.

But where he sat, gripping his fork tightly with his eyes wrenched shut and his lips pinched into a line, breath coming quick and shallow through his nostrils, he was lost. His cock pulsed and ached and throbbed and then burst. His seed jetted forth into his breeches, soaking the material beneath his heavy outer robe, leaking down his thigh in a sticky, warm mess. His veins rushed hot and his ears blared loudly for a moment. His head whirled with dizzy bliss, and then after a few moments of incredible satisfaction, he started to come down from the high.

He felt his cheeks cooling at last, felt his heart returning to a normal rhythm, and when he met Bellatrix's eyes at long last, she gave him a rather cheeky, playful little look and prompted him,

"My Lord, are you not hungry?"

He looked down at his plate then and hurried to finish his rabbit.

It happened again less than a week after the incident at her parents' house. Voldemort took Bellatrix to Hartlepool. He'd decided that a random attack on some Muggles, with the Dark Mark cast into the night sky, was in order, just to strike some fear into his enemies. He didn't want Dumbledore and the Ministry to think they'd succeeded in making him run scared with Rodolphus Lestrange's betrayal.

He didn't bring anyone else; he and Bellatrix could handle this alone. And he didn't have her wear her mask. There was no point. If any of their enemies appeared, it would be very obvious who she was, masked or not. He wanted to see her work.

They Apparated to Landsdowne Road in Hartlepool, a place Voldemort had arbitrarily chosen. Everything about tonight was meant to feel indiscriminate and irregular. Unpredictable. His next few attacks would be like this, he thought. He didn't want Dumbledore or the Ministry to be able to forecast his violence against Muggles or against Mudbloods. The enemies and antagonists of his movement would be struck down as if by lightning bolts in a tempest, and there would be nothing at all Dumbledore or the Aurors or anyone else could do to protect them or to stop Lord Voldemort.

He leaned now against an ugly parked red car on Landsdowne Road, toying with his bony yew wand as he was wont to do. It was unseasonably warm tonight, so he had eschewed apr heavy cloak and had come with Bellatrix at ten o'clock dressed in combat attire. He had on a simple woollen jacket buckled over loose breeches and his dragonhide boots, and she looked almost terrifyingly resplendent in a black gabardine wool tunic over flexible leggings and shiny flat boots of her own. She'd cast her curls into tight braids that crisscrossed over her head except for a few sprigs of stray ringlets. She was frightening, he thought, but very beautiful. His soldier, his… he loved her, he thought, as he leaned against the car and played with his wand.

"The first group that comes walking by," Voldemort said in an almost bored sort of voice, though his heart was thumping a bit already. "We ought not linger, Bella."

Bellatrix turned from where she stood and smiled a little, bowing her head respectfully. In the lamplight, her dark eyes glittered with excitement. He was letting her be feral and commit murders tonight, and she was very much looking forward to that. Voldemort stopped spinning his wand, because he was suddenly quite distracted, thinking about how enthusiastic his Bellatrix was at the promise of being permitted to unleash chaos and pain. He squirmed a little against the red metal body of the car, feeling a shock of want go up his spine, feeling the familiar sensations of arousal that he had become accustomed to thanks to Bellatrix. Warmth started in his cheeks and webbed its way down his neck and through his chest. His pulse started to gallop, sending his blood racing in his veins. His fingers tightened around the handle of his wand as his cock stiffened in his breeches, tenting the material; he could practically feel it palpitating inside the fabric.

"Bella," he choked out quietly, and then he saw it in her face again. She knew . She knew what she did to him in times like this. Her features softened just a little from the hot-tempered look she'd had earlier about killing, and suddenly she took a few steps toward where he was leaning against the car, and she reached out to brush her fingertips bravely against the heavy metal clasps at his chest. She stared up at him, her wide dark eyes shining in the lamplight, and she whispered,

"My Lord. Do you have any idea what it does to me? Serving you? Doing… this sort of awful, terrible thing… for you?"

"Bellatrix." Voldemort licked his lips and shut his eyes. His hands went of their own volition then to her body, his right arm touching the small of her back and pulling her closer and his left hand cradling her jaw. He murmured her name again a few times, and he felt everything inside of him starting to become inevitable. His balls were tightening, his breath was shallow and ragged, and his combat attire suddenly felt stiflingly hot even in the late winter night.

He heard a few voices conversing blithely, almost playfully, then, heard steady footsteps off to his left, and he jerked his hands off of Bellatrix and murmured to her,

"Our guests have arrived. Kill them for me."

"Yes, My Lord," she hummed back. He pried open his eyes then and watched as Bellatrix stood about three paces away from him, looking almost as casual as he did where he leaned against the red car. A pack of four young Muggles, all of whom appeared mildly intoxicated and seemed to be out for a night on the town, were striding down the footpath and chatting aimlessly. They didn't even seem to notice Bellatrix or Voldemort or care that they were there. Bellatrix glanced quickly at Voldemort and gave him a wicked little look, then raised her odd, crooked wand and aimed it at the tallest of the young Muggle men.

"Avada Kedavra!" Bellatrix shrieked. There was a vivid green flash of light, and the young Muggle man collapsed in death, landing in a heap on the ground. The other three young Muggles started shrieking in horror, and one immediately began to run away in terror. Bellatrix giggled maniacally and mumbled, "Oh, no, you don't. Avada Kedavra! "

Her aim was true. The fleeing young man was shot down at once with a jet of jade light that socked straight into his back and sent him soaring straight onto his face on the footpath. He did not move again. Bellatrix quickly disposed of the two Muggle girls with Killing Curses, and as she stalked over to the pile of bodies to kick at them with her boot and revel in her murderous victory, she laughed under her breath and asked,

"Have I done you proud, Master?"

But he could not answer her, because it had happened again. He'd already been teetering on the edge with her when the Muggles had shown up; she'd had him right there, so very close. And then she'd gone and done all of this. She'd been the ferocious, vicious little beast that he'd adored for ages. Voldemort found himself using the edge of the car door for purchase so he didn't fall as come pumped steadily into his breeches, as he seethed through clenched teeth and let out a helpless, low little groan for her. He was breathless for a few moments, only distantly registering the way Bellatrix dutifully cast a shimmering Dark Mark in the sky to tattoo the clouds with a proud claim that these deaths were a sign of the Dark Lord's might.

It took him too long, probably, to clean up the mess in his breeches and put himself to rights enough to Disapparate away from the corpses they left behind in Hartlepool. But it was all well and good; their mission had been a success, and Bellatrix had been strikingly alluring and powerful, and Voldemort had found a diseased sort of pleasure in it all. So it was all well and good.

It was all well and good until he got caught, and he got caught in quite an embarrassing way.

Flavia Malfoy, ever the devoted party hostess, took it upon herself to throw a relatively small but decidedly festive Valentine's Day banquet with dancing. Voldemort had practically rolled his eyes into the back of his skull when Abraxas had come into his office and winced, saying that Flavia meant to do such a thing, but Voldemort had allowed it, because he wanted to continue to push the idea that his movement was strong and unafraid enough to continue socialising. However, he insisted on vetting the guest list.

Since it was the middle of the school term, this would be an adults-only party, and since it was for Valentine's Day, there would be a deeply inherently romantic theme. Voldemort expected that. What he was not expecting was for Flavia Malfoy to turn the normally dour and gothic ballroom of Malfoy Manor into a saccharine, cloying, ridiculously sentimental ode to love that practically gave Voldemort a cavity. He went into the ballroom with Abraxas an hour before the party started to survey the place, and he let out a guttural laugh as he turned to his old school friend and rather taunted him,

"Oh, Abraxas. Flavia's made quite a mess of the place, hasn't she?"

Abraxas curled his upper lip up, horrified, and said nothing. He just looked around the ballroom, taking in the floating spheres of light that illuminated the ballroom, with a dozen rich red roses suspended in the centre of each. He looked at the banners - which had temporarily replaced all of the ancient tapestries - of gold and silver shimmering hearts. He absorbed the sight of pink and red floral wreaths hanging from the stone walls, of the tables set with pink tablecloths and white china with red napkins and red goblets, and of the heart-shaped pink and red frosted cake that was already on display. Abraxas looked utterly humiliated and chomped his lip as he whimpered,

"Oh, it's ghastly, My Lord. Garish."

Voldemort could not help but keep laughing. This was all horribly amusing, and during wartime, he needed amusement. He shrugged. "Come now, Abraxas. Flavia has always had a bit of melancholy. If throwing a Valentine's party that feels a bit… erm, vulgar… brings her joy, then I say let her have it."

Abraxas turned his pale blue eyes to Voldemort, and finally, the other man smiled and then bowed a little. Voldemort excused himself to go upstairs and finish getting ready, and when he barreled into his suite, he called out for Bellatrix, hurrying over to his wardrobe so he could rush to get himself dressed. He was making a rare appearance in tuxedo robes tonight. As he discussed the kitcschy and ostentatious appearance of the ballroom with Bellatrix and bound up his white bow tie, he chuckled and called out,

"Honestly, it's as though Cupid was profoundly unwell and vomited up the entire holiday in that room. Wait until you see. Are you -"

He froze then, because she came out of the bathroom, and he suddenly could not move… or breathe… or think. She had finished her makeup, it seemed, and her hair. He gulped hard as he surveyed her, and he said the first thing that came into his mind.

"You've left your shoulders bare."

Bellatrix gave him a shy little smile and nodded. "Yes, My Lord. As you asked me to do, once, not so very long ago."

Not so very long ago. It felt like ages ago, somehow, that time he'd touched her in the meeting room after losing himself to the sight of her and told her he wanted her to dress with bare shoulders for him. He swallowed hard now and approached her in the bedroom they shared, drinking in the sight of her. She'd put on a black ballgown that sat squarely off her shoulders, with a corseted bodice that nipped in her already tiny waist and full skirts of airy tulle. The sleeves were wispy tulle, too, and he could make out the lean, toned lines of her arms beneath them. She wore only a simple pearl pendant around her neck, and all she'd done with her hair had been to treat it with a bit of Sleekeazy's and draw it half back with a pearl clip so that her neck and decolletage were revealed for her master. She wore red lipstick, just like he liked. She smelled of his favourite perfume, peppercorn and rose and moss. Suddenly he felt a feral urge to snatch at her waist and drag her onto the bed and bury himself inside of her, and as he touched at her cheekbone, he whispered,

"How I desire you… in every conceivable way."

"My Lord." Bellatrix nervously smiled at him, and she dared to reach up and finish adjusting his bow tie. That made his skin prickle, the feel of her fingers dancing near his throat, finalising his appearance for him. He finally just tugged at the hem of his black mohair worsted wool tuxedo robe, and he rather self-consciously prompted her,

"Well? For an old man?"

She shook her head and gave him an almost scolding look, her cheeks colouring deeply all of a sudden. "Old," she repeated in a disbelieving whisper. "My Lord. You are unfathomably handsome, as always. I shall be plucking the witches off of you in selfish desperation."

"You won't," he assured her with a smirk, "for I shan't be able to keep my hands or eyes off you long enough to grant any of them so much as a glance."

Bellatrix looked away from him then, eyeing the wallpaper thoughtfully, and he wondered if he'd said something wrong until she finally whispered,

"I did not realise, I don't think, how ferociously a silly little witch could love a wizard. Master."

He was quiet then, until finally, he conceded, "We ought to go. Flavia's exceedingly earnest about this party, and it would do me well to look at least… mildly interested."
"Or, at least," Bellatrix grinned, "as though the entire affair is not florid, frou-frou, romantic torture most unbefitting a figure like the Dark Lord."

He thought about telling her that decorations could scarcely torture him when he would be spending the evening with her , when she was looking like this , but instead, he just took her arm, noticing the way she seemed quite comfortable walking beside him now. He guided her cautiously down the staircase, for her full skirts brushed both sides of the stone walls. As they neared the ballroom, Voldemort mused softly to her,

"You've got a pearl bracelet on, but… you've no good rings these days."

Bellatrix flashed him a wild, wide-eyed expression, seeming very surprised. She'd Vanished her rings from Rodolphus in Rye, of course, after the boy had betrayed Voldemort. And those had been the rings she'd worn since exchanging wedding vows with him. Her steps faltered now as she hesitated, but then she informed Voldemort,

"I own several beautiful heirloom rings, My Lord; I've got a lovely garnet ring from my great-great-aunt Lyra, and I've got a translucent jade ring from China that my ancestor Lutana Black passed down to me and -"

"It'll be a bit belated, but I should like to give you something myself," Voldemort interrupted stoutly, "as a gift. For Valentine's Day."

Bellatrix's lips parted in wonder, and her dark eyes suddenly glistened, but then she nodded with very evident gratitude. She bowed her head and said reverently, "Master."

"Right. Erm. Let's go inside," Voldemort suggested. He took hold of her hand then, lacing her fingers through his. It was a less formal and more intimate way to enter the party, to be certain, but he found he didn't care. It was Valentine's Day, after all, and, anyway, everyone these days knew that Rodolphus Lestrange was a dead traitor and that Lord Voldemort had publicly declared himself in love with Bellatrix after fucking her on the table at a Death Eater's meeting.

So.

As soon as they walked into the ballroom, Abraxas Malfoy rushed over and bowed, placing his wand to his throat and casting a Sonorous Charm. He announced the arrival of the Dark Lord, and the ballroom fell silent for a long moment as everyone bowed and curtsied until Voldemort raised his hand in greeting and bid the small string ensemble to continue playing their maudlin romantic music. He kept Bellatrix's hand in his as he strode into the ballroom and was shown to the hosts' table for dinner, and when Voldemort pulled out Bellatrix's chair for her to sit beside him, she graciously swept down and flashed him a happy little expression.

"My goodness, Bellatrix," gushed Flavia Malfoy as she wandered over to the dinner table with a goblet in her hand, "don't you just look absolutely gorgeous? You look more delicious than the menu I've planned for tonight, and that's saying something! Oh! Do let Dobby know what you'd like to drink; we've got special Valentine's Day signature cocktails on offer! My Lord. Please let me know if there's anything you need that I -"

"Flavia," Voldemort said gently, "The party is magnificent. Do relax and enjoy yourself."

Flavia sipped her wine and nodded, reaching up to adjust her elegant satin red feathered hat. She quickly walked away, and as she did, Bellatrix giggled softly from beside Voldemort. He reached for her fingertips then, brushing his over hers, and when she stared at him, the rest of the party seemed to go quiet. They just eyed one another for what felt like ten seconds and a year, until Dobby came bounding over and planted a parchment drinks menu on the table, startling them both.

"My Lord! Miss Black! Please, may Dobby get you drinks?"

"Oh. Erm." Bellatrix seemed to have been jarred from sleep, and Voldemort realised suddenly that he wanted to leave, that he wanted to take her upstairs and unbutton the back of her black gown and peel it off of her, to kiss her soft skin and lie her down on her back on their bed and drive himself into her body slowly until he spilt himself, then shower with her, then sleep for a while until he felt like doing it all over again and -

"Erm. I should like one of the Beds of Roses," Bellatrix said cautiously, and Voldemort frowned at the menu when he saw that Bellatrix had ordered herself a drink of Champagne, rosewater, simple syrup, lemon juice, and a rose petal garnish. He scowled at Bellatrix and grumbled,

"You don't like sweet things. You shall get a headache."

Bellatrix gave him a warm little look and assured him meaningfully, "I'll be fine, My Lord. I only mean to drink one. I've learnt my lesson about drunkenness at parties."

He sighed at that, remembering how she'd been so disrespectful and had violated his authority, the way he'd shoved her to the ground and aimed his wand at her. He just nodded then and scanned his eyes over the drink menu, and he commanded Dobby sharply,

"One of the Enchanted, I suppose." He snarled a little at Bellatrix and complained, "Ghastly little names Flavia's come up with for the drinks. It's just gin, sugar, mint, lime, and soda. Would it be so difficult to give the drink a dignified name? Muggles would probably call that a Mint Gimlet or something."

Bellatrix just smiled again at him, seeming quite serene as Dobby made the drinks appear on the table at once and snatched the menu, scurrying away. Bellatrix raised her delicate flute filled with Champagne and said carefully, as she so often did,

"To the Dark Lord. May every battle be a victory."

"Well." He picked up his own glass and stared right into her eyes, "So long as I have you fighting for me, Bella, my odds of victory are significantly higher. So I'll drink to your toast."

He took a sip then, and when they set their glasses down, he flicked his eyes up at her. He was about to start talking to her about the ring he intended on having made. He had good connections with a traditional wizarding jeweller on the Continent, Ciondoli di Valore. They were based out of Rome and were known to willingly work with high-profile clients, even (or especially) those from Dark or problematic backgrounds. Voldemort was about to ask Bellatrix if she might like a sapphire surrounded by diamonds, or Australian opal, or an onyx. But before he had the chance, the rest of the dining table filled up with party guests, and he was forced to tear his attention away from her.

Abraxas Malfoy still seemed annoyed by the flamboyance of the party, but he gave his wife sour little smiles every now and then and kept nodding at her as she gushed about how happy she'd been to be able to throw a good romantic get-together. The Yaxleys and the Averys were seated at the table, as well, which seemed to please them greatly, since it was always an honour for anyone to be in the vicinity of the Dark Lord.

"How go things with the children, Madam Yaxley?" asked Voldemort as his plate filled with a salad of courgette, basil, and fennel. He genuinely did not care much about the Yaxley family, only about Yaxley's service as a Death Eater, but Yaxley's wife's face lit up at the faux interest, and she gently set down her own fork and contentedly exclaimed,

"Oh, they're grand, My Lord! Just grand! Townes is already flying like a little whip! So quick; I swear he'll be a Quidditch star."

"There are more important things in life than Quidditch, dear," Yaxley scolded his wife, stabbing at his salad. "There's a war on. Townes needs to be ready."

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "Your boy is, what, eight? Nine? By the time he's grown, Yaxley, I should hope we'll have won the damn war. Let us hope that little Townes grows up into a world where there is no concern whatsoever of war, and that he's free to play Quidditch to his heart's content."

"With precisely no interference from filthy Mudbloods and no worry of Muggle blood dirtying up our world," seethed Bellatrix from beside him. "Soon enough, The Dark Lord will be victorious and your son, Yaxley, will be the beneficiary of the war effort. The future of wizarding Britain is one of peace for magical people. He'll be able to play Quidditch… because of our master."

Voldemort eyed her, and all of a sudden he was dizzy. She was leaning forward over her salad plate, her small breasts heaving over the neckline of her gown, and she looked a bit feral and eager, her eyes narrowed as she spoke of the world he was seeking to build. He reached out to gently draw her back by her shoulder, fretting a little that she'd accidentally get her dress dirty leaning over her food in her earnestness. She glanced at him, and he wanted nothing more then than to snatch her face in his hands and to crush her mouth with an almost vicious sort of kiss. But he couldn't. Not here.

He was going hard, he felt, and though he tried to stave it off, he couldn't. He gulped hard and shook his head a little, and then he saw the wild flash in her brown eyes. She knew. She knew that he wanted her right now, that her behaviour was making him just a little mad for her. He realised that his fingers were still on her shoulder from where he'd pulled her away from the table, that he was stroking gently at her skin with his fingertips, that he was just gazing at her wordlessly.

"You're quite right, Miss Black," he heard Abraxas Malfoy say determinedly, and Voldemort turned rather breathlessly to face the man. Abraxas looked to Yaxley and then to Bellatrix, and it seemed, thankfully, as though the other two men had little idea how out of control their master was at the moment. Abraxas said in a bit of a booming voice, "My son Lucius is more than ready to serve our lord and master, and I know he will when his time comes. But, honestly, I hope he never does. Not because I am a coward, or because my son is a coward, but because I have some confidence that the Dark Lord will have successfully and completely conquered wizarding Britain in its entirety in short order."

Voldemort nodded and just finished eating his salad as the four witches at the table went on and on for a while complimenting each other's fashion. Apparently, that was a thing witches defaulted to doing. Voldemort could tell, with little pings of unintentional and instinctive Legilimency, that the compliments weren't genuine and were part of some sort of unspoken social code. Odd, he thought, but no matter. Their prattle gave him time to consume his food and drink his gin cocktail in silence and try to calm his mind and body. That didn't work very well, though, because his eyes kept flicking up of their own accord and glancing at Bellatrix.

Perhaps, he considered, it was how she'd dressed tonight. Bare-shouldered, just for him, because she knew he liked it when she dressed like this. Smelling divine. Her makeup done just so. That was part of it, he thought, but it wasn't all of it. Part of it was the easy way she'd been flirting with him all night, giving him heady looks under her eyelashes and curling up her lips and speaking in a low, quiet voice as she fixed his bow tie. The way she'd stared away from him and whispered, I did not realise, I don't think, how ferociously a silly little witch could love a wizard. Master. The way she'd let him possessively slip her fingers through his before coming into this ballroom. That was all part of it. Part of it was the way she'd responded to the Yaxleys' discussion of their son, with a feverish sort of defence of Voldemort and a prediction that his victory was imminent. That was part of it.

"Bella," Voldemort whispered, as the plates were cleaned magically and then filled with luscious-looking steak au poivre with caviar. Bellatrix was still animatedly discussing where Mrs Avery had obtained her silly purple handbag, so she didn't hear him. Rather irritated now at being ignored, Voldemort reached out to brush his knuckles over her shoulder and said more firmly, "Bellatrix."

She snapped to attention then, abandoning her conversation with Mrs Avery immediately. She opened her mouth as if she meant to ask him what he needed, but she seemed to read the desperate need on his face, the look of savage and animalistic craving he was certain was painted on his features. She glanced around the table; everyone had begun to tuck into their steaks with caviar and had quietly initiated conversations. Voldemort tried to tear his hand from Bellatrix's shoulder and completely failed. He simply could not stop touching her, not even here, in front of everyone. His cock was quite literally causing him pain inside his fitted black tuxedo trousers now.

"Dance with me," Voldemort hissed, and Bellatrix flicked her dark eyes toward the little orchestra before patiently whispering to him,

"My Lord, no one is dancing yet. Everyone is eating dinner."

Voldemort cleared his throat and shut his eyes. "Then… let's go upstairs."

He felt something then and nearly groaned, nearly squirmed. He felt her fingertips on his knee, curling there and stroking gently, and his breath trembled. His mind was flooded with the idea of dragging her up the staircase and flinging open the door to their suite, of tossing her onto the bed and not bothering to take off her delicious gown, of hiking up her skirts and plundering her until she screamed for him. He shook his head a little and insisted again,

"Let's go."

"Master," Bellatrix purred patiently, "It would not befit you to walk out of this party right now. I beg you to try and… to try and manage. I can help you manage."

She was almost silent on those last few words, and she'd leaned closer to him to whisper them. He shivered a little and finally nodded, but he was shocked when she showed him just what she meant. He felt her hand creep up from his knee, working its way up the thigh of his tuxedo trouser leg. He shifted awkwardly in his chair and glanced down at his untouched steak. He grabbed at his glass of gin cocktail and swigged deeply, his breath quivering.

"Miss Black, exceptionally impressive work on those Muggles up in Hartlepool," Avery was saying. "When the Dark informed us all of it… I must confess, I was both awed and jealous. Of course, I was elated for the movement, but you have to admit, she's a bleeding menace, isn't she, Yaxley? Malfoy?"

The three male Death Eaters laughed good-naturedly, and Yaxley conceded, "You do manage to make us all look very incompetent, Miss Black, but I don't suppose we'd make it without you."

"You flatter me, Mr Yaxley," said Bellatrix, her own voice shaking just a little. Voldemort tried desperately to stay upright in his seat as her palm and fingers began to work with his furious and urgent erection. His cock pulsed and throbbed beneath her hand as she massaged his shaft, toyed with his tip through the fabric, and gently cupped his balls. His breath hitched so audibly then that Flavia Malfoy worried in a concerned voice,

"My Lord? Is everything all right?"

"Mmm." Voldemort nodded, and Bellatrix slowed her hand. Voldemort's cheeks felt like they were absolutely on fire then, and he struggled to speak, feeling his vision blur as he finally managed, "I, erm… not much appetite tonight, I'm afraid. It's nothing personal. Usually a big fan of… steak. Caviar."

Flavia glanced to Abraxas and looked exceedingly uneasy. The Yaxleys and Averys had resumed a conversation amongst themselves, so as Bellatrix began to work at Voldemort's cock again beneath the table, she distracted the Malfoys by saying in her own slightly breathless voice,

"Cissy wrote to me and said that Lucius had some grand plans for Valentine's Day. He wouldn't tell her ahead of time, but it sounds like you've raised quite the little chevalier, Flavia."

"He'll be a good husband for your sister," Flavia gushed, and Bellatrix just nodded.

"Yes. I'm sure he will be."

Her fingers were flying up and down Voldemort's length, dancing around his tip, applying pressure just so. In his head, he could see himself with her on their bed, her black skirts up around her hips, his cock buried to the hilt inside of her. Wet and warm and snug - she was always wet and warm and snug around him, comforting, welcoming. He could hear her moaning for him now, could feel her skin sticky with sweat, could feel her wrists pinned to the sheets in the tight grip of his hands as he kissed her hard, and -

"Oh. Oh. Bella! Bellatrix…" Suddenly Voldemort's hands flew to the edge of the dining table and he wrenched his eyes shut, choking out a helpless noise and more than a few actual verbal exclamations. He gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air. The ballroom spun and his mind went completely and utterly blank for a good few seconds. There was a vibrant explosion in his mind then, a detonation of pleasure as come leapt from his cock into his tuxedo trousers, leaking through the material onto Bellatrix's fingers where she was still touching him beneath the table. There was oppressive heat, and Voldemort was much too aware of his own racing pulse. After around ten seconds, he started to recover enough to realise with a horrifying sense of clarity what the blazes had just happened.

Too much. This time had been entirely too much, he thought. This hadn't been like his sacred secret times during dinners and meetings, where he'd let himself release his climax inside hidden breeches with a soft little grunt and a surreptitious smirk to Bellatrix. This wasn't even a show of force at a meeting by ostentatiously fucking her on a table. No. This was worse. This was so, so very much worse.

He glanced around the dinner table in horror and could plainly see on every face that every single person sitting with him knew exactly what had just happened. They were all adults. They were not idiots. They knew what an orgasmic moan sounded like when they heard one, even from the Dark Lord himself. He wanted to be sick on the floor then, thinking he'd made a complete and utter fool of himself and humiliated himself.

But, then, somehow, Bellatrix rescued the situation, just like she always managed to do.

"I do apologise for my intransigent lascivious nature, My Lord," Bellatrix hummed, and when he turned his face to her, she had painted her own features with a look of scarlet shame. She turned her face to him and made her eyes go very wide, looking like she would cry, and she said softly, "I simply can't control myself around you, Master. My attraction to you is… ferocious. I ought not to have touched you without permission."

He sighed but kept his face steady. He wanted to kiss her hard on the mouth right now for what she was doing, for saving his reputation, but instead, he just gave her a serious nod and acknowledged primly,

"You're always insatiably lustful towards me, Bella; I know you can't help that. Still. You'll control yourself in public."

"Yes, Master." Bellatrix bowed her head, and Voldemort licked his lips as he murmured to her,

"Clean up the mess."

She nodded again and reached for her wand, hurrying to Scour and Siphon away the spilt seed in his trousers. Once she'd set her wand back down, Voldemort reached to cup her hand in his jaw and leaned to place a delicate kiss on her ruby lips, telling her quietly,

"Silly girl. Don't you know I mean to give you hours of pleasure upstairs after this party? Hm? Now. Eat your steak."