Title: The Skin We Live In
Author: da_angel729
Required Character and Prompt: Tom Riddle/Voldemort, uninvited guests/party crashers
Characters/Pairings: Voldemort/Bellatrix Lestrange
Rating: R
Content/Warnings: Masturbation, Rough Sex, Blow Job, Cunnilingus
Word Count: 1,321
Summary/Description: He's been in this new body only a few months the first time he tries to masturbate. Set during Order of the Phoenix.
Author's Notes: Written for daily_deviant for the Six Years Celebration with a prompt of Tom Riddle/Voldemort and uninvited guests/party crashers. I own nothing you recognize. This is my first post here and I want thank you all for giving me this opportunity! As always, feedback and con crit appreciated.

The Skin We Live In

He's been in this new body only a few months the first time he tries to masturbate.

It's a failure, and he rages, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

His hands are clumsy, new, and he can't quite grip himself right. The cock is too small—not small, just smaller than his previous one, slightly crooked, and Voldemort can't stand to look at it. It's an imperfection in his new body, and there is nothing Voldemort hates more than imperfection.

It doesn't stop him from trying, though, and he gets angrier and angrier at his failure.

So he tortures his newly captured prisoner, and returns to his rooms. His blood is boiling, and now it's not anger. No, after the torture he's feeling restless and hungry.

He always does.

He'll try again, he thinks, and sits on his bed. Leans back, and closes his eyes, his non-wand hand closing around the unfamiliar cock. He strokes, root to tip, squeezing lightly, hips stuttering slightly.

He doesn't grin, but satisfaction fills him as he gets it right, as the strange and unfamiliar cock twitches and hardens. He's moaning and gasping, feels better than he has since he first entered his body. His hand is moving smoothly, squeezing and tugging, and he's hovering on the edge when there's a knock on the door.

"What is it?" He's annoyed, can hear it in his voice, but the person on the other side obviously can't. Or doesn't care. Voldemort hates interruptions, wants the person to go away. Considers it, and then the person speaks.

"My Lord," he recognizes the voice, and smiles to himself. "I am sorry to bother you, but there has been an incident."

"Come in," he says, not moving, and Bellatrix Lestrange walks into the room.

Voldemort sees her eyes widen slightly when she enters, follows the flick of tongue that slides out when she licks her lips, staring at the cock he hasn't let go of. He slides his hand up, rubs his thumb over the tip, and she takes another step forward before stopping.

"What is it?" He asks, and feels nothing but pride when she doesn't answer. "Bella, my dear, is this incident urgent?"

Voldemort's pleased when she shakes her head, though her eyes look slightly glazed and she is panting slightly as she licks her lips again. She can't seem to take her eyes off him, and while that is certainly normal for her, he's never seen her look at him with lust. "No, my Lord. Merely a fight that got out of control. Nabillier has been killed by Lucius for attempting to have sex with Narcissa."

"Well, one can't blame him," he says, and knows she understands which one he means.

"Yes, my Lord," she says, a wry smile twisting her lips. "Narcissa is very beautiful."

"As are you, my dear Bella," Voldemort says, twisting his hand, his hips jerking slightly, and she takes a step forward. He watches as she takes a deep breath, lets it out on a long exhale.

"My Lord," she whispers breathlessly, "you must let me help you."

He looks at her a long moment, notices the hunger, the arousal, and within a minute she's on the bed, naked, paler than she used to be, thinner and covered with scars, but she still looks beautiful to him. Her arms are tied to the headboard and he's settled between her legs, pressing into her.

Bella moans, loudly, tries to get closer, and jerks back onto the bed when she tries to move her arms. "My Lord, please, please," she gasps, and Voldemort pulls back. She whimpers, arching, her legs wrapping around him, and he pushes in, hard as he can.

She shudders, instantly, and goes limp, and Voldemort relishes in the tight heat, the silkiness of her, and he mercilessly pounds into her, her body jerking listlessly at his thrusts. He leans down, places his mouth next to her ear.

"My dear, I have no desire to fuck a rag doll," he says, and releases her arms.

It's the right move, Voldemort knows, when her arms come around him and he feels her nails drag across his back, digging in and leaving what he knows will be fantastic lines. He's pounding into her, and she's matching every thrust and her nails dig deeper and deeper into his skin, her eyes dark and wide open, locked on his, and the hint of pain is only increasing his enjoyment.

It's the most alive he's been in years.

The orgasm rips through him, takes him by surprise, and as he stutters off rhythm, emptying himself, and he can feel her tighten and clench around him before she goes limp, again.

He's breathing heavily, and she's panting underneath him, shuddering lightly as his cock twitches in her, her hands relaxing off his back and falling to rest on his hips.

Voldemort scrapes his teeth across her neck and nips at her ear, and Bella's entire body jerks and tightens. He moans, low, and slides out of her. "My dear, you've gotten better at this," he says, and watches the satisfied smile cross her face.

"I've had some practice, my Lord," she says, "since the last time. Men in prison can be quite lonely."

She's smirking, and it's so much the Bella he knew before, not this slightly damaged one he has now, that he leans down and kisses her, hard, tongue sweeping into her mouth and damn near devouring her.

He's hard, again, and Bella slides sinuously against him, whispers against his mouth, "let me, my lord," and he can't refuse her. She's his greatest ally and his greatest weakness, and it's always been that way between them.

He flips them over, and she slides down until her mouth is hovering over his cock.

"My Lord, this is a great honor," she whispers, and takes him in, completely, in one try, his cock hitting the back of her throat. She sucks and licks, giving him all her attention, eyes closed, hands placed lightly on his hips to balance herself, and let him take over. His hands grip her hair and he thrusts helplessly into her mouth, faster and harder until he comes, opens his eyes just enough to see her throat working frantically as she swallows.

"My dear Bella," he says, hoarsely, and he knows she immediately recognizes the tone, though it's been years. She grins, pulls her mouth off his cock and practically slides up his body—and he always wonders how she does that, even as he appreciates it—until she's straddling his face, hands gripping the headboard.

She's soaking, smells like sex and him, and Voldemort swipes his tongue across her, once, and brings his hand up, runs his fingers through her folds. He smiles as she jerks, a long, loud moan shattering the quiet of the room, and matches the rhythm he's set as his hands and lips and tongue work relentlessly until she arches, a scream ripped from her throat, body tightening, and goes utterly still, her grip on the headboard the only reason she's still upright.

"My Lord," she says quietly, once her breathing evens out to small gasps. "Please."

He lifts her up, gives one last lick to keep the taste of her on his tongue, and settles her next to him. She sighs and kisses his shoulder before sliding out of the bed, looking for the dress he'd discarded.

"Bella," he says. "My dear. I look forward to doing this again."

"As do I, my Lord," she says, sincerely, and he knows she is telling the truth. "You have also gotten better at this."

Voldemort laughs when she leaves, though he knows it's not a nice one when the timid servant who enters moments later flinches at the sound, and goes to see the prisoner.

He thinks he is quite ready to find out what his new body can do.