Squickathon Fic: The Sickness of Snakes
Title: The Sickness of Snakes
Author: carpe_slytherin
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4590
Challenge: Squickathon: Voldemort/Nagini
Pairing: Voldemort/Nagini/Wormtail (hope no one minds me tossing in the third party)
Warnings: Bestiality - graphic m/m sex, man/snake sex and m/m/snake threesome, forced orgasm, cannibalism, mild bondage, character death (snuff), erotic asphyxiation, non-con, forced rimming, scat, and a touch of necrophilia. Not necessarily in that order.
Notes: There are several allusions to HBP-related events. Runic information is from Futhark: A Handbook of Rune Magic by Edred Thorsson and my good friend Scott. The title is from an Icelandic rune poem. This story is unbeta'd, because that was more than I could subject anyone to, but I'm open for suggestions and eager for constructive criticism.
Peter Pettigrew was not a particularly brave man, despite having been Sorted into Gryffindor, but he was fairly bright. When he was summoned to dinner with his Master, he was certainly smart enough to be nervous. The invitation arriving by way of a carefully hand-lettered and thick parchment card rather than the usual burning sensation from his Dark Mark only worsened his anxiety.
Unfortunately, he could think of no way to avoid the call. He was smart, but not that smart, and he definitely wasn't brave enough to accept the consequences of disobeying his Master. That had never been a good idea, and these days it was practically suicidal. He couldn't pinpoint the changes in the Dark Lord. It wasn't that his Master was insane. He was still perfectly aware of the world around him and in total control of himself. But there was something different, something… off.
If Peter was forced to describe it, he would have said that Lord Voldemort seemed almost soulless, as if a Dementor had begun to Kiss him but had been interrupted before it could finish. Others would laugh; they no doubt believed he had been soulless all along, but his most faithful servant knew otherwise. Until recently, while no doubt harsh, cold and cruel, Peter's Master had felt and expressed a range of emotions. But now, although his plans continued to progress well, the Dark Lord found no joy in them. He did not seem to truly enjoy torturing others anymore either. And he still maintained discipline in the ranks, but never truly grew angry. Only pleasure and pain seemed to affect him now - primitive physical responses as opposed to feelings. Lord Voldemort was an emotional void.
Peter wasn't sure what to do about his fears. They could be nothing, pure imagination and paranoia, but his every instinct was warning him of danger to his Lord. He had to do something about it.
Tomorrow, he would discuss his observations with Snape. If anyone else was going to notice the changes, it would be Severus Snape, but there was no more time for musings this evening. It was time to leave.
He ruthlessly ignored the shudder that thought provoked, straightened his dress robes one last time, and then Disapparated to the specified coordinates before he could have any more second, or third or fourth, thoughts.
~*~
All seemed peaceful when Peter reappeared in the entry hall of Lord Voldemort's current residence. To his surprise, his knock was answered by the Dark Lord himself, and he was quick to drop to his knees right there in the doorway.
"Rise. Rise, Wormtail," Voldemort instructed in his malevolent hiss of a voice, "This is a social occasion; there is no need for a great deal of ceremony."
Peter stood, smiling faintly at the Dark Lord. Some small part of him was waiting for joke to end and the Cruciatus curse to begin, but it didn't. At least not yet. That didn't mean he could let his guard down, but it was promising. He allowed a surge of hope to wash through him. He was here and his Master was here. There was no one else. Whatever else happened tonight, Peter was honoured. Very few people were allowed into the Dark Lord's presence alone. He trusted few at all, and none completely.
Despite knowing better, Peter couldn't help but relax. His Master was a good host, and by the time they sat down in the study to have a drink before dinner, they were engaged in easy conversation. He didn't think anything of it when topic flowed into topic, not even when Lord Voldemort topped off their glasses and then asked him if he believed in soul mates.
Peter took another sip of sherry and gave the question due consideration. "I'm not sure, my Lord, but I would truly like to believe." His legs sprawled out as languor crept through him. His body felt heavy, but there was a golden glow to his vision and a strangely light, detached feeling to his mind. "It's so nice to think that there is one special someone out there for everyone, someone so perfect that they truly hold a part of our souls…"
"I can tell you without hesitation that it is true, Wormtail, for I have found my mate," Lord Voldemort's long, thin fingers were tracing patterns over the tabletop as he spoke, and Peter was mesmerized by the motion, "and she does indeed safeguard a piece of my soul." The Dark Lord's mouth quirked up at the corners, unseen by his companion.
"Oh, how wonderful for you, Master. My congratulations to you both!" Voldemort's fingers were still moving, moving, moving, and was that a Hagalaz rune he shaped? Crisis which can lead to change, Peter remembered from long-ago Ancient Runes classes. His teacher had told him that the rune was described in an old Icelandic poem as "the sickness of snakes."
Peter picked out Eihwaz from the swirl of movement: Personal power, directed energies, life and death, Yggdrasil - the great yew tree which shelters and nurtures the worlds. And wasn't Lord Voldemort's wand created from yew? Peter's limbs were leaden now and his aperitif lay forgotten.
The Dark Lord hummed in absent-minded agreement. "She's been looking forward to seeing you tonight ever so much, Wormtail," his Master's hands never stopped, perpetual motion, runes and words and seemingly random pattern after hypnotic pattern. "I must admit that I have been looking forward to seeing more of you myself."
'Well that was a strange thing to say,' Peter mused, 'He sees me most every day.' The thought was slow in coming. It felt like someone had packed his skull with cotton wool. Lost in a pleasant haze, he continued to watch the Dark Lord's hands. Finally, with a muttered word, the motion ceased and those long fingers clasped around a tulip-shaped sherry glass.
Peter's senses were excruciatingly sharp now. With treacly slowness it occurred to him that his drink had been laced with some sort of perception-altering potion, among other things. His body was affected as well. He could move, but it was difficult and slow, a battle against the very atmosphere which was suddenly pressing down on every inch of him. The scent of the sherry overwhelmed him, too sweet, cloying, but layered with the eye-stinging stench of evaporating alcohol. And every time there was the slightest movement, the sound grated across his nerves, setting them alight with a jarring combination of irritation and arousal.
He looked up at his Master, a fearful question struggling to his lips, his eyes meeting and falling into the deep red. All he saw were those eyes, rimmed in drug-induced gold, and they were burning. Flames turned inside out, dragging him down. He wanted to fight his way up, to run, to transform and skitter away on tiny rat paws, but he was pinned by those eyes and by the heavy weight of air against him.
No escape. There was no chance of rescue, no mercy to be had. Running hadn't been an option for more than twenty years now, but never before had he felt such a desperate urge to try. In his Master's eyes he had seen the need for pleasure, the need to feel, but it was all for himself. Peter's pleasure was of no consideration to him; he was under no illusions that it would be otherwise. There was nothing for him to do but tremble and pray to whatever deities there might be that what gave the Dark Lord pleasure would not kill his faithful servant.
Unfortunately, Peter Pettigrew believed in no gods. His silent prayers, instead of being lifted by hope, were crushed down as firmly as his body was. It had been a long time since Peter had believed in mercy, from his earthbound, crimson-eyed God or any other.
Those eyes moved closer as the Dark Lord loomed over his Death Eater. "Yes," Peter heard the low and drawn out hiss of a word while at the same time he felt the signature pull of his Master touching his mind. "You do have some rudimentary grasp of my plans for you, my loyal one. But that is only the beginning."
Peter's lips were dry as a parchment pale hand ran down his chubby cheek, over his throat, and began flicking open the fastenings of his robe one at a time. Panic flooded his system, making the already heavy weight of the atmosphere pressing down on his chest nearly insurmountable. He gasped weakly for breath, and the struggle fueled his fear further in a spiralling cycle of terror.
"There is nothing to fear. After all, you have told me often enough that you exist for my pleasure. And it feels good, does it not? Every touch, every word. So good."
His Master was right. His mind was screaming for it to stop, to run away and run away fast, but every inch of skin was clamoring for more. It would have been better if it hurt. Less humiliating, less frightening and frustrating.
His outer robe was gone now, and Peter shuddered as more of his body was exposed to the warm, heavy air. Only his thin under-robe and pants shielded him from nakedness.
Then a new sensation was upon him, and it wasn't the physical feeling of Lord Voldemort's hands possessively mapping his body. It was a new sound, a susurration like a broom brushing over the floor, but somehow more solid, more animal. It was the soft rasp of leather against leather. It curled around him, soothing and scratching at once.
"What… someone?" he forced through protesting lips and tongue.
His Master tilted his head and listened. A wide, horrible smile cracked his fleshless face open. "Ah, she's here, Wormtail. Now the night's entertainment can truly begin." The death's head grin stretched further, making Peter whimper. "Dinner could not possibly have started without her."
Peter's muddled mind had difficulty making sense of those remarks. She? Who? Then with a sinking sensation, realisation came to him: the soul mate. The mate who slithered, who hissed to the Dark Lord and sped her motions when the Dark Lord hissed back.
Nagini. This was going to be worse than he feared. Much, much worse.
The huge snake slipped into the room, tongue flickering out and scenting the air which was laden with sweat, unwilling arousal, man, and red-eyed monster. She hissed again, and Lord Voldemort chuckled but did not bother to translate. He then flicked his wand out with no further ado, and the rest of Peter's clothing shredded down the seams, whipping from him and leaving him shivering and exposed. His fleshy body quivered with the combined and chilling force of sudden nudity and stark fear.
He could only wait and take shallow, wheezing breaths as Nagini approached. Her forked tongue darted against his skin, moving steadily up his leg as her body curled around and climbed his. He moaned despite himself.
"Good boy, Wormtail. Let her taste you. She is my mate, a part of me as I am of her." The Dark Lord was panting in arousal, removing his own clothing and teasing his own newly uncovered white skin as he went. "Surrender for her as you would for me."
There was nothing Peter could do but obey. The cool, smooth scales and delicate tongue against him were bliss, and the denial coursing through him did not stop the traitorous reactions of his flesh. He was chanting "no" under his breath, again and again, but was still sinking deeper into the cradling cushions beneath him. He barely noticed when his Master Transfigured the sofa he rested on into something wider and more comfortable and pushed him flat onto it.
On the other hand, he could not fail to notice the whiter than white arse poised over his face. Nor could he ignore the words the Dark Lord was hissing softly, ordering his servant to eat his hole well and get him good and slick, threatening dire consequences should he be injured by his mate through lack of proper preparation.
For the first time, Peter tried to fight. He refused to stick his tongue into anyone's bottom, even if that someone was the Dark Lord and held Peter's life in his hands. Some taboos were just too deeply ingrained to be tossed aside easily.
Lord Voldemort, however, was not inclined to give him much choice in the matter. When Peter turned his head aside and squirmed frantically, the Dark Lord simply lowered himself onto the other man so that he could not get a proper breath. The panicked wriggling against his sensitive bits made him moan.
"Defiance, loyal one?" the Dark Lord whispered, "I will not brook refusal, Wormtail. Lick. Lick and I will move so that you can breathe again. Deny me and you will die of strangulation here and now."
Peter Pettigrew fought as long as he could, but he had strong survival instincts and needed air desperately. There was nothing for it but to comply with his Master's demands. Awkwardly because of the angle of his head, he thrust his tongue out and pressed it into the crease between his Lord's cheeks, gagging, wanting to vomit but too afraid that he would choke if he did.
He had no knowledge of technique and no desire to learn, but he did his best to please, to tease and thrust against the tight, dry pucker. After a few strokes, much to Peter's relief, his Master raised up a bit on his knees, allowing his servant to take in much needed oxygen.
"Ah, very nice. Get me good and wet now," Lord Voldemort commanded. "Yessss, that's it," he continued when Peter had done so, "Now suck."
Peter grunted his denial, caught between pride at providing his Master with pleasure and complete disgust at the act he was being forced to commit. For the moment, disgust was winning. Peter was convinced that if he actually sucked that clenching ring, his Master would shite into his mouth. He fiercely debated with himself whether refusal was worth dying over, but was paralysed in indecision. His whimpering protests were sending shivers of sensation into the Dark Lord.
Seething with frustration, Lord Voldemort lifted himself so that he could look down, narrow-eyed and cold, on Peter's horrified features. "Do you think you are above anything I might offer you, Wormtail?" He looked down the prone man's body. "You are not. And parts of you don't seem to mind the idea in the least."
Peter squeaked, mortified at that truth. He was erect. Thrumming with desire, in fact. Apparently, he was aroused by humiliation and fear. Perhaps that shouldn't have been surprised him, but it did anyway. Besides, Nagini's tongue was still teasing at his thighs and balls, her deadly fangs too close to parts he would rather keep for his peace of mind. The sensations her touch provoked were electric.
"Very well," Pettigrew's Master said on a sigh, sounding for all the world as if granting a huge boon, "I understand your concern. If it will ease your mind I will void my bowels before we continue. Then you will have nothing more to fear."
"Yes, my Lord," Peter choked out, "Thank you." His stutter was more pronounced than ever. And he had relaxed too soon yet again.
Lord Voldemort had never taken kindly to having his will thwarted. He grabbed Peter's silver hand quickly, before the addled man could think to avoid his grasp, and muttered a spell over it while pressing it against the metal frame of the Transfigured bed. They melted together, pinning the chubby man in place.
"You brought this on yourself," the Dark Lord murmured, more to the room in general than to Peter. "I was not planning this at all, but you must remember your place."
He squatted over the other man's belly for a long while, face contorted in concentration. He hovered for long minutes as he struggled to force his bodily processes along by strength of will alone. At last he was rewarded for his efforts, defecating onto his servant's skin.
When he had finished, he sighed in relief. "It is amazing how something so simple can feel so wonderful. Full intestines can be so uncomfortable, yes?" Waving a hand, Lord Voldemort cast a wordless, wandless charm to clean himself. "So much better."
Peter couldn't find it within himself to agree. His eyes glazed over as he took in the sight of his defiled abdomen. It was so wrong, so vile. A dry retch wracked his frame. He was absurdly grateful that he hadn't eaten anything.
"Now that we have that out of the way, it is time we moved things along." The Dark Lord poked a finger into his own mess, then idly began drawing on Peter's chest with the brown-tinted fingertip. More runes - power, binding, other symbols which Peter couldn't begin to divine, all traced in feces. The smell overwhelmed his heightened senses, making him light-headed. Or was the spell that his Master was writing responsible for that? Perhaps it was both. In silence, Lord Voldemort completed his work. The images glowed briefly, then faded away. Voldemort banished every last trace of his wastes. Physically at least, Peter was pristine again. Mentally, he was afraid that he was scarred forever.
The Dark Lord moved down Peter's body again, spreading his thighs open and kneeling between them. "When you pledged yourself to me, you promised me everything," he spat into his hand twice and stroked the saliva over his own hard prick, "Your magic, your body, your mind. Your life. Your very soul." Quickly he spat again, reaching back to shove his slicked fingers into his own arse. "Until now I have not demanded very much of you, my servant. Now I am collecting."
Peter knew what was coming. He knew and tried to relax, but nothing could prepare him for the feeling of having another man's hard cock forcefully introduced into his arse. It burned and tore into him, and he was fairly certain that he screamed and begged for mercy that would never be granted, but even then the potion affecting his senses refused to let go. The shimmering pleasure continued to build alongside the pain.
Lord Voldemort grunted with the effort of thrusting into Peter's tight hole and Peter yelled over and over, trying to escape but caught between his Master's weight and his pinioned hand. And still he was hard, his erection magically maintained against his consent, against his better judgment, against everything that was right and normal.
"Tight. So tight. Better than I could have imagined." The Dark Lord said as he thrust into Peter, slow but deep. He was either ignoring his servant's howls or oblivious to them while focused on his own gratification.
Above Peter, who was too busy wishing for unconsciousness to notice, the Dark Lord and his mate Nagini held a softly hissed conversation. They quickly came to an accord, and Nagini rose from her ministrations to Peter's helpless form, stopping to gaze into her human mate's eyes momentarily.
Peter moaned as Nagini turned and slithered her way up his torso. It felt perfect, all cool weight and flexing muscles against his hot skin. She wrapped a coil around his throat and settled down to flick her tongue over his nipples, driving him mad with every fluttering lick.
And then Nagini's tail disappeared behind Lord Voldemort. There was a sudden jolt interrupting the rhythm of thrusts, a hitch of breath and then a groan. Peter knew the snake was fucking the Dark Lord with her tail. Peter couldn't see it happening, but he could imagine it and feel and see how it affected the man buried within his own body.
It was sick. It was utterly depraved, and Peter was reluctantly forced to admit to himself that the idea made him even more horny than he already was. It was so fucking hot.
The Dark Lord set a new cadence, withdrawing his cock to the very tip and then slamming back into Peter's arse. At the bottom of each stroke he ground his hips in a circle, being nudged just a bit further inside when Nagini plunged into him in turn.
"This feels incredible," the Dark Lord muttered. "Come for me, Wormtail. Let yourself go and be bound to us forever."
Peter wanted to obey. He had been teased and held on the edge for so long, egged on by the perception-altering potion, but he couldn't give in. He didn't know what spells had been cast or how he would be bound to them. He didn't particularly want to find out. All he knew was that he would not approve or there would have been no need for trickery, drugs and rape.
Peter gathered every scrap of his willpower. He mourned the knowledge that he had never had much to gather, and what little he possessed had eroded during his ordeal. It was not, could not be, enough, but he narrowed his attention to one simple goal anyway: he mustn't come. His life and more might hinge on holding himself back.
His Master knew he was holding back, but did not seem unduly troubled. He continued to pound into his servant, taking his own enjoyment from the act for a few minutes that felt like eons to the struggling Peter.
The Dark Lord slipped one hand from Peter's hip to stroke Nagini's back. It was apparently an established signal between them, for at her mate's touch Nagini gradually tightened herself around Peter's throat.
"It is time, Wormtail. Submit to me. Give in." The Dark Lord changed the angle of his strokes slightly several times until he found his target. Peter couldn't help his gasp as his Master's hard length firmly rubbed against his prostate gland with each and every plunge.
Peter knew that he was fighting a losing battle, but he soldiered on valiantly. His Master was forcing the most exquisite pleasure upon him, and Nagini continued to squeeze his airway closed until Peter could no longer manage a breath. Seconds ticked by, marked by the brutal metre of rough, yet controlled, sex. As Peter ran out of oxygen, he began to feel dizzy. His head started to pound and his vision began to fade around the edges. Soon he was in full-blown panic.
He tugged and clawed at Nagini with his one free hand, attempting to dislodge her, but she was far too strong and he had far too little leverage. His hips bucked desperately, seeking to throw his rapist. It was hopeless. All the feelings he had been subjected to were entwining together, pooling low in his belly and deep in his balls, a pile of sensory kindling which only needed the smallest spark to flare.
Fight-induced endorphins provided that flame. Peter lost the delicate rein on his orgasm. His back arched and his cock spit out two powerful, staccato bursts of semen before easing into smaller and smaller molten aftershocks which ran unchecked down his erection and into his pubic hair.
"Now, Nagini!" the Dark Lord commanded, and the serpent obediently twisted and sank her fangs into Peter's neck. She released her stranglehold, simultaneously injecting her deadly venom into Peter's jugular vein. Death came for Peter swiftly, curling around him like a blanket while his life force drained away and his magic transferred to his Master through the rune spells.
The Dark Lord cried out and stilled his motions in order to maintain his self-control. Peter's pain-wracked convusions around his prick and the influx of his stolen magic created an almost overwhelming bliss for his Master.
The pain ended. Peter's soul separated from his lifeless body, and he was achingly grateful. It was all over now and he could move on to whatever afterlife there might be.
But it wasn't over for Peter. Not even close. He quickly realised that he could only move so far from Lord Voldemort's side before he was pulled back. He was forced to watch helplessly as the Dark Lord fucked his bonelessly flopping corpse, forced to witness those spidery fingers running through Peter's still-warm seed and then lapping them clean, forced to hear the other wizard's grunts, moans, and muttered obscenities as he sped his thrusts, reaching for the pinnacle. Nagini curled tightly and lovingly around her mate, plunging her tail hard, fast and deep into that moonlight pale arse.
The Dark Lord lost his rhythm, giving in to the need to come. He shouted out in ecstasy and triumph and emptied himself into the body beneath him.
Nagini pulled her tail free, hissing urgently to the Dark Lord before he had even caught his breath.
"Yes, yes. I know you are hungry. I must retrieve my portion first and then the rest is yours." Peter gaped at the implications of that, but had little time to consider it before Lord Voldemort grabbed his wand. First he cast a spell which dissolved his magical silver hand, and then he shot a slicing hex at his chest - or his corpse's chest, rather. He reached in and ripped Peter's heart from his ribcage and proceeded to devour it raw. Dark heart's blood ran down his hand and arm as he feasted, and when he was finished with his meal, he licked up every drop of that as well, groaning like a gourmet at the end of a seven course meal.
Peter could do nothing but watch in mingled horror and sorrow as Nagini stretched her jaws wide and consumed the rest of his body ever so slowly, starting at the head and working her way down until it was nothing but a man-shaped bulge inside her distended stomach. She curled up, settling in for what looked to be a long and contented nap.
Lord Voldemort stroked her head, gazing at her with affection. As soon as she had dozed off, he pulled his robe on and re-Transfigured the bed into the sofa it had been. He folded his hands in his lap and sat back, looking thoughtful.
"Wormtail, I know you're still there. I can't see you, but I know that you cannot leave." The crimson eyes drifted shut as he continued speaking to his incorporeal servant. "You were very brave at the end. There was no way you could have won. No one can beat me, but you were very brave. And you served me well in life. Now you have your reward. You are bound to me and to my mate. Your magic is my magic, your soul is tied to ours. Even your flesh will become one with our bodies. Only one as loyal as you could merit such a gift. You are mine beyond mortality, mine for eternity. You earned it, Wormtail." Lord Voldemort stretched out beside his inhuman mate and sank into exhausted slumber.
Peter Pettigrew sank to the floor, shaking with sobs and grateful that no one could see or hear his weakness. His Master was right. He had earned this. With every betrayal, with every death he had caused, with each cowardly action, he had earned this hell.
For the first time ever, Peter savoured his Master's fallibility. The Dark Lord was not invulnerable. He held tight to the hope that Potter would win in the end and, in destroying his nemesis, set him free. For Peter Pettigrew, that damned and pathetic soul, the alternative was unthinkable.
finite fabula
Author: carpe_slytherin
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4590
Challenge: Squickathon: Voldemort/Nagini
Pairing: Voldemort/Nagini/Wormtail (hope no one minds me tossing in the third party)
Warnings: Bestiality - graphic m/m sex, man/snake sex and m/m/snake threesome, forced orgasm, cannibalism, mild bondage, character death (snuff), erotic asphyxiation, non-con, forced rimming, scat, and a touch of necrophilia. Not necessarily in that order.
Notes: There are several allusions to HBP-related events. Runic information is from Futhark: A Handbook of Rune Magic by Edred Thorsson and my good friend Scott. The title is from an Icelandic rune poem. This story is unbeta'd, because that was more than I could subject anyone to, but I'm open for suggestions and eager for constructive criticism.
Peter Pettigrew was not a particularly brave man, despite having been Sorted into Gryffindor, but he was fairly bright. When he was summoned to dinner with his Master, he was certainly smart enough to be nervous. The invitation arriving by way of a carefully hand-lettered and thick parchment card rather than the usual burning sensation from his Dark Mark only worsened his anxiety.
Unfortunately, he could think of no way to avoid the call. He was smart, but not that smart, and he definitely wasn't brave enough to accept the consequences of disobeying his Master. That had never been a good idea, and these days it was practically suicidal. He couldn't pinpoint the changes in the Dark Lord. It wasn't that his Master was insane. He was still perfectly aware of the world around him and in total control of himself. But there was something different, something… off.
If Peter was forced to describe it, he would have said that Lord Voldemort seemed almost soulless, as if a Dementor had begun to Kiss him but had been interrupted before it could finish. Others would laugh; they no doubt believed he had been soulless all along, but his most faithful servant knew otherwise. Until recently, while no doubt harsh, cold and cruel, Peter's Master had felt and expressed a range of emotions. But now, although his plans continued to progress well, the Dark Lord found no joy in them. He did not seem to truly enjoy torturing others anymore either. And he still maintained discipline in the ranks, but never truly grew angry. Only pleasure and pain seemed to affect him now - primitive physical responses as opposed to feelings. Lord Voldemort was an emotional void.
Peter wasn't sure what to do about his fears. They could be nothing, pure imagination and paranoia, but his every instinct was warning him of danger to his Lord. He had to do something about it.
Tomorrow, he would discuss his observations with Snape. If anyone else was going to notice the changes, it would be Severus Snape, but there was no more time for musings this evening. It was time to leave.
He ruthlessly ignored the shudder that thought provoked, straightened his dress robes one last time, and then Disapparated to the specified coordinates before he could have any more second, or third or fourth, thoughts.
~*~
All seemed peaceful when Peter reappeared in the entry hall of Lord Voldemort's current residence. To his surprise, his knock was answered by the Dark Lord himself, and he was quick to drop to his knees right there in the doorway.
"Rise. Rise, Wormtail," Voldemort instructed in his malevolent hiss of a voice, "This is a social occasion; there is no need for a great deal of ceremony."
Peter stood, smiling faintly at the Dark Lord. Some small part of him was waiting for joke to end and the Cruciatus curse to begin, but it didn't. At least not yet. That didn't mean he could let his guard down, but it was promising. He allowed a surge of hope to wash through him. He was here and his Master was here. There was no one else. Whatever else happened tonight, Peter was honoured. Very few people were allowed into the Dark Lord's presence alone. He trusted few at all, and none completely.
Despite knowing better, Peter couldn't help but relax. His Master was a good host, and by the time they sat down in the study to have a drink before dinner, they were engaged in easy conversation. He didn't think anything of it when topic flowed into topic, not even when Lord Voldemort topped off their glasses and then asked him if he believed in soul mates.
Peter took another sip of sherry and gave the question due consideration. "I'm not sure, my Lord, but I would truly like to believe." His legs sprawled out as languor crept through him. His body felt heavy, but there was a golden glow to his vision and a strangely light, detached feeling to his mind. "It's so nice to think that there is one special someone out there for everyone, someone so perfect that they truly hold a part of our souls…"
"I can tell you without hesitation that it is true, Wormtail, for I have found my mate," Lord Voldemort's long, thin fingers were tracing patterns over the tabletop as he spoke, and Peter was mesmerized by the motion, "and she does indeed safeguard a piece of my soul." The Dark Lord's mouth quirked up at the corners, unseen by his companion.
"Oh, how wonderful for you, Master. My congratulations to you both!" Voldemort's fingers were still moving, moving, moving, and was that a Hagalaz rune he shaped? Crisis which can lead to change, Peter remembered from long-ago Ancient Runes classes. His teacher had told him that the rune was described in an old Icelandic poem as "the sickness of snakes."
Peter picked out Eihwaz from the swirl of movement: Personal power, directed energies, life and death, Yggdrasil - the great yew tree which shelters and nurtures the worlds. And wasn't Lord Voldemort's wand created from yew? Peter's limbs were leaden now and his aperitif lay forgotten.
The Dark Lord hummed in absent-minded agreement. "She's been looking forward to seeing you tonight ever so much, Wormtail," his Master's hands never stopped, perpetual motion, runes and words and seemingly random pattern after hypnotic pattern. "I must admit that I have been looking forward to seeing more of you myself."
'Well that was a strange thing to say,' Peter mused, 'He sees me most every day.' The thought was slow in coming. It felt like someone had packed his skull with cotton wool. Lost in a pleasant haze, he continued to watch the Dark Lord's hands. Finally, with a muttered word, the motion ceased and those long fingers clasped around a tulip-shaped sherry glass.
Peter's senses were excruciatingly sharp now. With treacly slowness it occurred to him that his drink had been laced with some sort of perception-altering potion, among other things. His body was affected as well. He could move, but it was difficult and slow, a battle against the very atmosphere which was suddenly pressing down on every inch of him. The scent of the sherry overwhelmed him, too sweet, cloying, but layered with the eye-stinging stench of evaporating alcohol. And every time there was the slightest movement, the sound grated across his nerves, setting them alight with a jarring combination of irritation and arousal.
He looked up at his Master, a fearful question struggling to his lips, his eyes meeting and falling into the deep red. All he saw were those eyes, rimmed in drug-induced gold, and they were burning. Flames turned inside out, dragging him down. He wanted to fight his way up, to run, to transform and skitter away on tiny rat paws, but he was pinned by those eyes and by the heavy weight of air against him.
No escape. There was no chance of rescue, no mercy to be had. Running hadn't been an option for more than twenty years now, but never before had he felt such a desperate urge to try. In his Master's eyes he had seen the need for pleasure, the need to feel, but it was all for himself. Peter's pleasure was of no consideration to him; he was under no illusions that it would be otherwise. There was nothing for him to do but tremble and pray to whatever deities there might be that what gave the Dark Lord pleasure would not kill his faithful servant.
Unfortunately, Peter Pettigrew believed in no gods. His silent prayers, instead of being lifted by hope, were crushed down as firmly as his body was. It had been a long time since Peter had believed in mercy, from his earthbound, crimson-eyed God or any other.
Those eyes moved closer as the Dark Lord loomed over his Death Eater. "Yes," Peter heard the low and drawn out hiss of a word while at the same time he felt the signature pull of his Master touching his mind. "You do have some rudimentary grasp of my plans for you, my loyal one. But that is only the beginning."
Peter's lips were dry as a parchment pale hand ran down his chubby cheek, over his throat, and began flicking open the fastenings of his robe one at a time. Panic flooded his system, making the already heavy weight of the atmosphere pressing down on his chest nearly insurmountable. He gasped weakly for breath, and the struggle fueled his fear further in a spiralling cycle of terror.
"There is nothing to fear. After all, you have told me often enough that you exist for my pleasure. And it feels good, does it not? Every touch, every word. So good."
His Master was right. His mind was screaming for it to stop, to run away and run away fast, but every inch of skin was clamoring for more. It would have been better if it hurt. Less humiliating, less frightening and frustrating.
His outer robe was gone now, and Peter shuddered as more of his body was exposed to the warm, heavy air. Only his thin under-robe and pants shielded him from nakedness.
Then a new sensation was upon him, and it wasn't the physical feeling of Lord Voldemort's hands possessively mapping his body. It was a new sound, a susurration like a broom brushing over the floor, but somehow more solid, more animal. It was the soft rasp of leather against leather. It curled around him, soothing and scratching at once.
"What… someone?" he forced through protesting lips and tongue.
His Master tilted his head and listened. A wide, horrible smile cracked his fleshless face open. "Ah, she's here, Wormtail. Now the night's entertainment can truly begin." The death's head grin stretched further, making Peter whimper. "Dinner could not possibly have started without her."
Peter's muddled mind had difficulty making sense of those remarks. She? Who? Then with a sinking sensation, realisation came to him: the soul mate. The mate who slithered, who hissed to the Dark Lord and sped her motions when the Dark Lord hissed back.
Nagini. This was going to be worse than he feared. Much, much worse.
The huge snake slipped into the room, tongue flickering out and scenting the air which was laden with sweat, unwilling arousal, man, and red-eyed monster. She hissed again, and Lord Voldemort chuckled but did not bother to translate. He then flicked his wand out with no further ado, and the rest of Peter's clothing shredded down the seams, whipping from him and leaving him shivering and exposed. His fleshy body quivered with the combined and chilling force of sudden nudity and stark fear.
He could only wait and take shallow, wheezing breaths as Nagini approached. Her forked tongue darted against his skin, moving steadily up his leg as her body curled around and climbed his. He moaned despite himself.
"Good boy, Wormtail. Let her taste you. She is my mate, a part of me as I am of her." The Dark Lord was panting in arousal, removing his own clothing and teasing his own newly uncovered white skin as he went. "Surrender for her as you would for me."
There was nothing Peter could do but obey. The cool, smooth scales and delicate tongue against him were bliss, and the denial coursing through him did not stop the traitorous reactions of his flesh. He was chanting "no" under his breath, again and again, but was still sinking deeper into the cradling cushions beneath him. He barely noticed when his Master Transfigured the sofa he rested on into something wider and more comfortable and pushed him flat onto it.
On the other hand, he could not fail to notice the whiter than white arse poised over his face. Nor could he ignore the words the Dark Lord was hissing softly, ordering his servant to eat his hole well and get him good and slick, threatening dire consequences should he be injured by his mate through lack of proper preparation.
For the first time, Peter tried to fight. He refused to stick his tongue into anyone's bottom, even if that someone was the Dark Lord and held Peter's life in his hands. Some taboos were just too deeply ingrained to be tossed aside easily.
Lord Voldemort, however, was not inclined to give him much choice in the matter. When Peter turned his head aside and squirmed frantically, the Dark Lord simply lowered himself onto the other man so that he could not get a proper breath. The panicked wriggling against his sensitive bits made him moan.
"Defiance, loyal one?" the Dark Lord whispered, "I will not brook refusal, Wormtail. Lick. Lick and I will move so that you can breathe again. Deny me and you will die of strangulation here and now."
Peter Pettigrew fought as long as he could, but he had strong survival instincts and needed air desperately. There was nothing for it but to comply with his Master's demands. Awkwardly because of the angle of his head, he thrust his tongue out and pressed it into the crease between his Lord's cheeks, gagging, wanting to vomit but too afraid that he would choke if he did.
He had no knowledge of technique and no desire to learn, but he did his best to please, to tease and thrust against the tight, dry pucker. After a few strokes, much to Peter's relief, his Master raised up a bit on his knees, allowing his servant to take in much needed oxygen.
"Ah, very nice. Get me good and wet now," Lord Voldemort commanded. "Yessss, that's it," he continued when Peter had done so, "Now suck."
Peter grunted his denial, caught between pride at providing his Master with pleasure and complete disgust at the act he was being forced to commit. For the moment, disgust was winning. Peter was convinced that if he actually sucked that clenching ring, his Master would shite into his mouth. He fiercely debated with himself whether refusal was worth dying over, but was paralysed in indecision. His whimpering protests were sending shivers of sensation into the Dark Lord.
Seething with frustration, Lord Voldemort lifted himself so that he could look down, narrow-eyed and cold, on Peter's horrified features. "Do you think you are above anything I might offer you, Wormtail?" He looked down the prone man's body. "You are not. And parts of you don't seem to mind the idea in the least."
Peter squeaked, mortified at that truth. He was erect. Thrumming with desire, in fact. Apparently, he was aroused by humiliation and fear. Perhaps that shouldn't have been surprised him, but it did anyway. Besides, Nagini's tongue was still teasing at his thighs and balls, her deadly fangs too close to parts he would rather keep for his peace of mind. The sensations her touch provoked were electric.
"Very well," Pettigrew's Master said on a sigh, sounding for all the world as if granting a huge boon, "I understand your concern. If it will ease your mind I will void my bowels before we continue. Then you will have nothing more to fear."
"Yes, my Lord," Peter choked out, "Thank you." His stutter was more pronounced than ever. And he had relaxed too soon yet again.
Lord Voldemort had never taken kindly to having his will thwarted. He grabbed Peter's silver hand quickly, before the addled man could think to avoid his grasp, and muttered a spell over it while pressing it against the metal frame of the Transfigured bed. They melted together, pinning the chubby man in place.
"You brought this on yourself," the Dark Lord murmured, more to the room in general than to Peter. "I was not planning this at all, but you must remember your place."
He squatted over the other man's belly for a long while, face contorted in concentration. He hovered for long minutes as he struggled to force his bodily processes along by strength of will alone. At last he was rewarded for his efforts, defecating onto his servant's skin.
When he had finished, he sighed in relief. "It is amazing how something so simple can feel so wonderful. Full intestines can be so uncomfortable, yes?" Waving a hand, Lord Voldemort cast a wordless, wandless charm to clean himself. "So much better."
Peter couldn't find it within himself to agree. His eyes glazed over as he took in the sight of his defiled abdomen. It was so wrong, so vile. A dry retch wracked his frame. He was absurdly grateful that he hadn't eaten anything.
"Now that we have that out of the way, it is time we moved things along." The Dark Lord poked a finger into his own mess, then idly began drawing on Peter's chest with the brown-tinted fingertip. More runes - power, binding, other symbols which Peter couldn't begin to divine, all traced in feces. The smell overwhelmed his heightened senses, making him light-headed. Or was the spell that his Master was writing responsible for that? Perhaps it was both. In silence, Lord Voldemort completed his work. The images glowed briefly, then faded away. Voldemort banished every last trace of his wastes. Physically at least, Peter was pristine again. Mentally, he was afraid that he was scarred forever.
The Dark Lord moved down Peter's body again, spreading his thighs open and kneeling between them. "When you pledged yourself to me, you promised me everything," he spat into his hand twice and stroked the saliva over his own hard prick, "Your magic, your body, your mind. Your life. Your very soul." Quickly he spat again, reaching back to shove his slicked fingers into his own arse. "Until now I have not demanded very much of you, my servant. Now I am collecting."
Peter knew what was coming. He knew and tried to relax, but nothing could prepare him for the feeling of having another man's hard cock forcefully introduced into his arse. It burned and tore into him, and he was fairly certain that he screamed and begged for mercy that would never be granted, but even then the potion affecting his senses refused to let go. The shimmering pleasure continued to build alongside the pain.
Lord Voldemort grunted with the effort of thrusting into Peter's tight hole and Peter yelled over and over, trying to escape but caught between his Master's weight and his pinioned hand. And still he was hard, his erection magically maintained against his consent, against his better judgment, against everything that was right and normal.
"Tight. So tight. Better than I could have imagined." The Dark Lord said as he thrust into Peter, slow but deep. He was either ignoring his servant's howls or oblivious to them while focused on his own gratification.
Above Peter, who was too busy wishing for unconsciousness to notice, the Dark Lord and his mate Nagini held a softly hissed conversation. They quickly came to an accord, and Nagini rose from her ministrations to Peter's helpless form, stopping to gaze into her human mate's eyes momentarily.
Peter moaned as Nagini turned and slithered her way up his torso. It felt perfect, all cool weight and flexing muscles against his hot skin. She wrapped a coil around his throat and settled down to flick her tongue over his nipples, driving him mad with every fluttering lick.
And then Nagini's tail disappeared behind Lord Voldemort. There was a sudden jolt interrupting the rhythm of thrusts, a hitch of breath and then a groan. Peter knew the snake was fucking the Dark Lord with her tail. Peter couldn't see it happening, but he could imagine it and feel and see how it affected the man buried within his own body.
It was sick. It was utterly depraved, and Peter was reluctantly forced to admit to himself that the idea made him even more horny than he already was. It was so fucking hot.
The Dark Lord set a new cadence, withdrawing his cock to the very tip and then slamming back into Peter's arse. At the bottom of each stroke he ground his hips in a circle, being nudged just a bit further inside when Nagini plunged into him in turn.
"This feels incredible," the Dark Lord muttered. "Come for me, Wormtail. Let yourself go and be bound to us forever."
Peter wanted to obey. He had been teased and held on the edge for so long, egged on by the perception-altering potion, but he couldn't give in. He didn't know what spells had been cast or how he would be bound to them. He didn't particularly want to find out. All he knew was that he would not approve or there would have been no need for trickery, drugs and rape.
Peter gathered every scrap of his willpower. He mourned the knowledge that he had never had much to gather, and what little he possessed had eroded during his ordeal. It was not, could not be, enough, but he narrowed his attention to one simple goal anyway: he mustn't come. His life and more might hinge on holding himself back.
His Master knew he was holding back, but did not seem unduly troubled. He continued to pound into his servant, taking his own enjoyment from the act for a few minutes that felt like eons to the struggling Peter.
The Dark Lord slipped one hand from Peter's hip to stroke Nagini's back. It was apparently an established signal between them, for at her mate's touch Nagini gradually tightened herself around Peter's throat.
"It is time, Wormtail. Submit to me. Give in." The Dark Lord changed the angle of his strokes slightly several times until he found his target. Peter couldn't help his gasp as his Master's hard length firmly rubbed against his prostate gland with each and every plunge.
Peter knew that he was fighting a losing battle, but he soldiered on valiantly. His Master was forcing the most exquisite pleasure upon him, and Nagini continued to squeeze his airway closed until Peter could no longer manage a breath. Seconds ticked by, marked by the brutal metre of rough, yet controlled, sex. As Peter ran out of oxygen, he began to feel dizzy. His head started to pound and his vision began to fade around the edges. Soon he was in full-blown panic.
He tugged and clawed at Nagini with his one free hand, attempting to dislodge her, but she was far too strong and he had far too little leverage. His hips bucked desperately, seeking to throw his rapist. It was hopeless. All the feelings he had been subjected to were entwining together, pooling low in his belly and deep in his balls, a pile of sensory kindling which only needed the smallest spark to flare.
Fight-induced endorphins provided that flame. Peter lost the delicate rein on his orgasm. His back arched and his cock spit out two powerful, staccato bursts of semen before easing into smaller and smaller molten aftershocks which ran unchecked down his erection and into his pubic hair.
"Now, Nagini!" the Dark Lord commanded, and the serpent obediently twisted and sank her fangs into Peter's neck. She released her stranglehold, simultaneously injecting her deadly venom into Peter's jugular vein. Death came for Peter swiftly, curling around him like a blanket while his life force drained away and his magic transferred to his Master through the rune spells.
The Dark Lord cried out and stilled his motions in order to maintain his self-control. Peter's pain-wracked convusions around his prick and the influx of his stolen magic created an almost overwhelming bliss for his Master.
The pain ended. Peter's soul separated from his lifeless body, and he was achingly grateful. It was all over now and he could move on to whatever afterlife there might be.
But it wasn't over for Peter. Not even close. He quickly realised that he could only move so far from Lord Voldemort's side before he was pulled back. He was forced to watch helplessly as the Dark Lord fucked his bonelessly flopping corpse, forced to witness those spidery fingers running through Peter's still-warm seed and then lapping them clean, forced to hear the other wizard's grunts, moans, and muttered obscenities as he sped his thrusts, reaching for the pinnacle. Nagini curled tightly and lovingly around her mate, plunging her tail hard, fast and deep into that moonlight pale arse.
The Dark Lord lost his rhythm, giving in to the need to come. He shouted out in ecstasy and triumph and emptied himself into the body beneath him.
Nagini pulled her tail free, hissing urgently to the Dark Lord before he had even caught his breath.
"Yes, yes. I know you are hungry. I must retrieve my portion first and then the rest is yours." Peter gaped at the implications of that, but had little time to consider it before Lord Voldemort grabbed his wand. First he cast a spell which dissolved his magical silver hand, and then he shot a slicing hex at his chest - or his corpse's chest, rather. He reached in and ripped Peter's heart from his ribcage and proceeded to devour it raw. Dark heart's blood ran down his hand and arm as he feasted, and when he was finished with his meal, he licked up every drop of that as well, groaning like a gourmet at the end of a seven course meal.
Peter could do nothing but watch in mingled horror and sorrow as Nagini stretched her jaws wide and consumed the rest of his body ever so slowly, starting at the head and working her way down until it was nothing but a man-shaped bulge inside her distended stomach. She curled up, settling in for what looked to be a long and contented nap.
Lord Voldemort stroked her head, gazing at her with affection. As soon as she had dozed off, he pulled his robe on and re-Transfigured the bed into the sofa it had been. He folded his hands in his lap and sat back, looking thoughtful.
"Wormtail, I know you're still there. I can't see you, but I know that you cannot leave." The crimson eyes drifted shut as he continued speaking to his incorporeal servant. "You were very brave at the end. There was no way you could have won. No one can beat me, but you were very brave. And you served me well in life. Now you have your reward. You are bound to me and to my mate. Your magic is my magic, your soul is tied to ours. Even your flesh will become one with our bodies. Only one as loyal as you could merit such a gift. You are mine beyond mortality, mine for eternity. You earned it, Wormtail." Lord Voldemort stretched out beside his inhuman mate and sank into exhausted slumber.
Peter Pettigrew sank to the floor, shaking with sobs and grateful that no one could see or hear his weakness. His Master was right. He had earned this. With every betrayal, with every death he had caused, with each cowardly action, he had earned this hell.
For the first time ever, Peter savoured his Master's fallibility. The Dark Lord was not invulnerable. He held tight to the hope that Potter would win in the end and, in destroying his nemesis, set him free. For Peter Pettigrew, that damned and pathetic soul, the alternative was unthinkable.
finite fabula