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It had been twelve days since Voldemort last rested. Incapable of experiencing true sleep anymore, he had grown to hate the periods of repose his body demanded.
This body, which he had worked relentlessly to perfect since his return ritual five years previous, required very little sustenance and highly reduced amounts of rest. But it did still require them. And as if in spite, this same body only permitted him to lie splayed and weak as the thin fog brushed across his mind when he saw fit to seek its embrace. Nevermore could he escape into dreams or lose awareness of his surroundings.
At first, he thought this a blessing; never to be caught off guard, never to be vulnerable. But instead, Voldemort felt every agonizing moment pass without even the focus to ponder upon his work. His body lay frozen, as trapped as if it were a coffin. While his mind was stuck there between full awareness and oblivion. It reminded him far too much of the endless void of those 13 bodiless years; a tethered helplessness. He could do nothing but endure.
Sighing, Voldemort rises from his desk leaving his work unfinished with an urge to pace. He allows himself only two passes of the bookcases, his will barely resisting the dragging weight of his legs. Enough was enough.
The state only worsened when he tried to avoid it. Needing far less ‘sleep’ than a normal human, he could go several days or even a few weeks between sessions. But on those occasions where he broke from routine and went longer, his body would sometimes take that choice from him. Being locked in that painfully aware stasis due to exhaustion was far less than ideal.
No. No. Never again.
It was far better to choose where he would lie, safe behind several wards and enchantments with only his horcruxes to keep him company and the strength to awaken if needed. His lovely Nagini was always a fierce protector (and cuddler.)
Resting away from his estate was not a viable option. He would not make that mistake again.
A low hiss of irritation escapes him at the memories. He rolls his stiff shoulders to release some of the tension. The joints and muscles ache in protest to the stretch. With exhaustion and a grumpy Nagini nipping at his heels, Voldemort decides it is time for him to turn in. He begins the walk to his suites at a dragging but measured gait, delaying the inevitable as he continues to think on his political plans now that he has installed his more benevolent and approachable persona as the new Minister for Magic.Though it was only midday, he hopes to be rested in time for a meeting with Rabastan this evening. With France next on his agenda, he has already begun recruitment of new death eater candidates to help further his infiltration. Hopefully, Rabastan was successful in swaying the hearts of his French relatives.
Nagini flicks her tail, soon growing bored with him as they enter the portrait-lined hallway leading to his rooms. Her attention alights on the tasty morsel of an unfortunate white peacock in the yard outside, one of several that Voldemort had nicked from Malfoy Manor in retaliation for Lucius’s recent insufferable smugness on his recently passed law.
Slipping between his legs, she slithers off in the direction of the window as Voldemort watches her with a fond grin. Let her have her fun.
Briskly tying off his protection spells, Voldemort affords himself no further excuses before placing his wand away in its case. A sigh of relief wafts from his mouth as the youthful glamoured facade of Minister Riddle slides off in smoky wisps as he glides gracefully towards his bedside, leaving the twisted, skeletal truth of his post-resurrection body. The curtains adhere to the windows, keeping out each knife-like beam. The room is lit only by the diffused light of candles that slinks along his bared, ashen scalp. With a resigned sigh, his limbs drag him onto the silken sheets. Lying atop the only covers with his hands on his chest, he lets the fog fill his mind.
Hardly ten minutes passes before the electric and heady taste of ancient magic fills Voldemort's bedroom in Riddle manor. His curtains dance about as the magic explodes outwards with such a force that Voldemort's body nearly slides off the edge of his own covers.
Voldemort is always in a foul mood while resting and this time is hardly different.
With a lurch, his wand is in his hand, before his mind has fully returned to himself. His magic fills the room, pulsing on high alert for the threat that disturbed him. It yanks at his bones, waiting to be unleashed on the unlucky intruder. Tingling skitters of fear and excitement rush beneath his skin as the adrenaline pumps him with energy.
Who would dare trespass upon him!?
And there they are, a figure, right in the middle of his bed. An usurper in the very spot he had been moments before.
A honey-skinned woman sits on all fours; her hands clutched in the sheets, her legs askew, and her brown curls cascading down her shoulders. The would-be assassin appears to be wearing a shimmering, dark witches robe cinched at the waist with a split up the side revealing the beginning of lush, silken thighs, strong calves, and bare feet. Quite the odd uniform for an assassin.
As he considers her, he mentally taps into his wards. They're still intact without a single trap or alarm tripped. Who could have possibly gotten past the complex curses he himself had invented? There are very few in the world that could be capable of such a feat. And yet this unknown woman is still here.
A delicious and sugary smell hits his nostrils. With another breath, he takes it in deeper, the hint of cinnamon tickling his senses. Nostalgia and memories of the pure magic of his youth overcome him for a moment. Unconsciously, he shifts closer for another whiff of that wondrous scent of magic.
Brown eyes instantly lock onto him with a hawkish intensity. The woman freezes as she takes him and the room at large in. Books, furniture, and various baubles are scattered haphazardly about the room in response to her explosive entrance.
Zeroing back in on Voldemort, those umber irises are quickly swallowed up by growing pools of black and white. An almost feral grin overtakes Voldemort’s wide, serpentine mouth.
Fear is such an intoxicating sight on lesser beings.
Predictable.
Like most creatures he plays with, she screams. Loudly.
Her limbs flail about, patting at the silk bed covers in a mindless search for a wand, and end up tangling together as she scrambles back towards the headboard.
Delight surges through him at her moment of blind terror.
Far too quickly, she composes herself. She eyes the white wood of his wand. Deep breaths fill her lungs, fighting back any further hysterics. That gaze rakes across the situation with a steely deliberation as she pushes to stand herself up.
Slowly he meanders towards the bed.
“Come now, little assassin. How did you gain entrance to my bed chamber?”
She remains silent. Her mouth flutters in an O before settling flat and determined. His robes flutter as he slides closer, slowly circling her.
“Who are you?”
Silence. Her eyes follow him, diverting now and then to the doors and windows. Circling back, he stalks closer, his wand kept seemingly innocuous at his side.
“Who sent you?”
Nothing
Slipping forward with serpentine speed and grace, he delicately slides his wand down her temple in mockery of a caress.
Softly, he murmurs. “If you tell me who they are, I can assure you I'll hurt you much less.”
A disbelieving laugh bursts from her chest. With a righteous anger in her eyes, she finally parts her lips, “So it's to be pain either way, then.”
He smirks.
“Yes. There must be retribution for the sheer audacity and violation of my home. None who inflict such an affront on Lord Voldemort can leave unpunished.”
A new spark of fear and understanding fills her eyes before her lips tighten upon themselves in a determined pucker.
So tight they are.
How nice it will be to force them open.
She stubbornly holds her jaw taut as his wand traces down it to the curve of her neck. He leans in closer to her. Defensively her hands come up to press against his chest, but her attempts are soft and futile against him.
He breathes a whisper into her ear, “It need not be truly terrible for you. My wards and protections are some of the strongest and most complex ever enacted in the world, trouncing even those of the ministry. You must be quite clever to have gotten through them. Just tell me who sent you. Join me, and I will show you mercy.”
“No. I've read plenty on what you did during the war, and I'll never join a blood purist monster like you.You will get nothing from me.” Her voice rings sharp through the room as her eyes try to pierce his in the same way.
So be it.
“Legilmens!” he hisses before sinking down into her mind.
He finds himself floating, swimming beneath a vast ocean. Faint light flutters down beneath the waves, shimmering over his face. Currents of thoughts and images stream past him twisting off into the dark abyss. Her mind is a vast and soft beauty. He imagines what it might take to make her mind bleed, to replace this enveloping water with blood.
With an eager hand, he reaches out to claw at one of the currents. He glimpses her sitting in a maroon armchair with her legs crossed and stretched out. Sunlight streams through the backlit window, making her hair gleam with golden streams. In her lap are several books, including a favorite of his on ancient Egyptian magic. The room is filled with shelves upon shelves of further books, a library of some sort. The woman turns towards him and seems to be speaking to someone, but there is no sound.
Confusion overtakes him as he strains his magic, looping strands of it around the memory, seeking to hear some kind of information or name. The book titles start to blur and swim in his vision as a ringing fills his ears. The memory swirls back into the darkness of the void. Voldemort reaches for another stream.
The same thing happens. He tries again, snarling with impatience. Each glimpse he gets of her gets shorter and shorter, giving him nothing. Like water through cupped fingers, she escapes him. He feels her there floating within her own mind. She's not doing anything. She doesn't plead. As her magic hasn't risen against him to shield or for subterfuge, she couldn't be an Occlumens. There is only gentle weight of the water, yet her mind still eludes him.
Angrily, he summons forth mental curses and Fiendfyre, boiling the water surrounding him as he mentally slams against her mind. Her mind scape shakes, and he can feel her burn. Yet still she just floats there as if her mind could be elsewhere.
With a flurry of frustration, Voldemort retreats from her mind and violently tosses her back on the bed before she has a chance to recover. He begins casting in parseltongue, weaving tight bindings around each wrist and ankle and attaching them to each of the bed posts. The faux ropes shimmer as if scaled as they bite red rings into the soft flesh beneath them. He gives her a moment to collect her senses as an almost smug grin twitches at her mouth. Climbing, he stands up on the bed, hovering over her supine form.
She moves to get up before realizing her wrist is caught. Taking in her bound limbs, she begins to struggle. A struggling worm on a hook, her body flops about. Her eyes burn with hatred as her movements only lead the ropes to bite in further. Hints of tears glisten on the edge of her molten angry orbs. They bring him some comfort, but do nothing to assuage the cruel beast of emotion he's kept caged.
His bone-white wand flourishes downward her. The Cruciatus lilts from his lips like a lover's sigh.
Elation - sweet and heady elation - floods through his veins as she contorts hard about the binds. Screams lap like waves at the corners of the room. That delicious voice that she so denied him, he pulls out of her like the smooth plucking of a chord on catgut strings.
Each casting of the spell is brief and intermittent with pauses to give her time to recuperate and him room to savor. It would not do to have her lose her faculties… or her bowels whilst still atop his bed.
On each breath between crucio she pleads and begs, but he has no room in him to give her mercy now.
By the time he's cast twice more, her skin has taken on an adorable ruddy hue. One of her dainty wrists has begun to weep, gifting her a new scarlet bracelet. Tear tracks glide down the hills of her face. Sweat licks down her face, plastering down several curls. Her chest rises and falls with her rapid breaths. Breasts ripple softly with each movement as her limbs twitch. The black fabric of her robes have ridden up to her hips in her useless endeavors revealing the white of her underclothes.
She is magnificent in her suffering.
Desire builds within to see all of it, all of her glory, all that she has.
Diffindo.
A quick thought severs the threads of her robe from the edge of the thigh slit all the way up to her neck. With another slash, he cuts off that final flap of the front of her robe that would dare even hint at modesty. Holding it aloft, he vanishes it without further ado. Faint gasps and floundering gulps find their way out of her as he takes in his work.
Small paper-thin lines of red follow the routes of his purposefully indifferent spell-work. Her pink bra with little dancing blue cats on it, no where near matching her milky knickers. It too has several lovely slashes in it. He adds a few more before deciding it has to go. He leans down to grip at the holes in the fabric. She shrieks at his touch and renews her fight with her bindings. He leers at her, licking out along the recess of his nose before wrenching the material upward with a loud tear. This he tosses onto his nightstand for possible perusal later.
She's begun growling and spitting at him like a feral cat as he flicks her left nipple with the tip of his wand. He switches and begins tapping at her right one while she squirms. Her eyes follow his wand as he abuses the hardening bud. Under her distraction, he elongates his tongue and use its fork to lash hard on her left one. She gifts him a yelp. He gives the breast a firm squeeze.
Voldemort folds his thin legs beneath him as he crouches between her legs for a better angle.
Leisurely, he trails his wand down the dip of her belly button to the edge of those white, cotton knickers. He presses the tip of his wand down hard against her seam beneath them and begins to roughly rub the fabric brutally over her clit and core. The white begins to darken and wet from the friction.
Oh, how he'd love to see all of that white stained in red instead… and why not?
Shifting back, he asks the ropes around her wrists to tighten and pull her up at an angle, almost a sitting position. Greedily, he takes in her heaving chest and bloody chafed wrists. Sweat glistens under the candlelight as it drips from her brow, running down her neck, and pooling with its brethren on her gold-cast stomach. The small red lines have already started to dry and scab.
Yes… She looks quite fetching in shades of red.
Feeling more unhinged, he swishes his wand up with a gleeful hiss. She yelps and bites down on her swollen lip as a patch of supple skin on her belly splits open to reveal the rubied prize from within, pouring forth and painting across his canvas.
Another cut follows below her belly button. He drags this one long and deep. It's slightly curved and could almost be a smile. This wins him a scream that devolves into sobs. He digs his fingers sharply into the wound, his curled lip twitching with satisfaction for each reluctant sound he pulls from her.
Blood starts to soak over and seep into the stark white frills of her knickers as he moves lower. He lands a harsh slap to her thigh before pinching the flesh hard between his fingers, the resounding cry adds to the music of the moment. The pink flush on her skin begs for freedom that he so relishes in giving. He rained his palm down on the other side.
How could he not claim this beautiful creature of agony for himself? She might not join him willingly as she has so proven, but she would be his all the same. He carves down into the reddened flesh, twisting and turning as he marks out the ‘S’ of his family crest. Her teeth grit against her groans as he goes deeper on this one, piercing through all the layers of skin. Her tormented screams and groans fill the air. She would remember this. She would look at this and know she is his. And when he is done here, he'll brand her with his Mark and let her feel its burn sink in within the dungeons for a few nights. Maybe then he can tame her.
He slides the tip of his wand back along to trace the gouge in her twitching muscle causing another wail. By the time he pulls away, she's become even more of a quivering and sobbing mess.
His wand, like her knickers have turned crimson with her fluids. Wrapping his tongue from tip to shaft, he curls and licks it clean. Meanwhile, bloody rivulets pour from his crest, caress her thigh, and snake down to the valleys of her calf.
Warmth floods his chest at the sight.
He slices again.
She whimpers in protest, but her futile struggles are less intense.
He slices again.
Barely a groan is released this time.
Pulling back, he soaks in her allure. Closing his eyes, he breathes her in deep.
An excitement thrums heavily through Voldemort's frame. A pounding drums in his ears and his breathing is erratic. He reaches to set his wand into the snake mawed case on his night stand.
Impulsively, he flips the interloper onto her stomach with an impatient flick of the wrist. He can feel a long forgotten heat growing in his groin. With a hard grip, he pulls her hips up, spreading her for further inspection. The blood slips and sticks beneath the pads of his fingers as he squeezes her soft flesh.
Overcome with a need to taste, Voldemort's long slightly forked tongue flits out, running up her bloody inner thigh. He hums at her coppery cinnamon flavor while laving up her other thigh before dipping into her musky folds. His tongue twists about inside her as she squirms. He feels about the limits and ridges of her canal. A particular rough patch causes her to gush on his taste buds and emit a reluctant mewl. With predatory glee, he bats and whips at the spot.
His interloper has started to pant and twitch back onto his tongue. Her opening flutters around him, quickening. She sobs and moans beneath him, her hips mindlessly grinding down on his tongue. He slides out, slick dripping from his maw as he nips playfully at her pert buttock and pulls away.
Slithering out of his robe, he quickly folds and sets it aside before crawling up and leaning over her. Involuntarily, he buries his face in her curls and breathes her scent and magic in deeply before sighing. She is shaking and silent beneath him. Gently, he wraps his hand around her throat before firmly turning her head back towards him. She glares up at him a spark of willful defiance glitters back amongst the tears. Despite the pleasure, pain, and weariness on her face, it seems she has not broken. She wears an almost audacious aura of majesty even as she lies helpless beneath him. The desire to break her beckons and wars with the strange desire to keep her as she is.
He watches the minute expressions of her face as he presses his hips flush against her ass, his cock squeezed between her cheeks.
No begging leaves her lips when she realizes what is to come, only a wheezed sigh of resigned calculation.
He squeezes her neck tightly as he guides his cock into her. Pressing in with efficiency, his hips make several brisk and controlled movements before deepening into longer and rougher thrusts.
Perhaps recklessly, Voldemort decides to remove the binds from her as he releases her neck. He hisses a few wandless words and the bindings slide off her before disintegrating. She lets out a series of coughs and makes an attempt to snarl. Holding her down with his body, he pushes into her more forcefully. A moan punches its way out of her throat before her head rams viciously into the headboard stunning her.
A few moments pass as her body loosely continues to give way to him in her dazed state. With how docile she's grown, apprehension starts to fill his chest that he might've broken his new favorite toy. He needn't have worried. With an aggressive twisting motion, she latches her teeth down into his arm. Blood spurts across her lips as she bites down hard causing him to grunt at the pain. She makes quite the glorious picture with her dampened ringlets encircling her face and accentuating the mix of blood that drips from her lips. He yanks her off with a hard grip on those very curls.
Decidedly, he gives her the response that she deserves. His sharp teeth dig in, penetrating her in tandem with his cock. With a cry, her jaws release him. His jaw further envelopes her smooth shoulder as he readjusts his bite and fucks her harder. She claws, writhes, and clenches against him in an attempt to free her flesh from his mouth, but he gives her no quarter.
He keeps her pinned, a quickening and relentless rhythm building. When he finally releases her shoulder it is only to let out a loud groan as he thoughtlessly cums inside her. Stars fill his vision as the world becomes soft and distant. Blissfully, he floats as he pulls out of her and bonelessly rolls over onto the bed. A comforting, heavy darkness pulls over his mind.
Voldemort falls deeply asleep.