Voldemort knew the very moment he was screwed: when his eyes locked with Quirrell’s, and the graveyard and his Death Eaters disappeared,
and Quirrell just beamed at him as they greeted each other for the first time.
“It’s just a scratch, you’re not dying,” Quirrell promised, trying not to snicker, as Voldemort swore up and down that the cat scratches would be the death of him.
As much as Voldemort liked receiving pleasure, he loved the way Quirrell’s eyes rolled and the strangled gasps as he tried to contain his voice when Voldemort touched him
One might believe that Voldemort, whose reputation preceded him, had the horrid temper,
but he would claim otherwise; the former Dark Lord knew better than anyone not to get on the bad side of his partner,
whose gentle smiles and love for flowers did not necessarily mean that he did not possess thorns of his own.
At the start of their relationship, nothing would turn Voldemort on more than when his shy Squirrel, teeth sinking into his lower lip and cheeks flushed,
would press against him and fumble over the buttons of his shirt.
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