@marauderskinktober day 26 - free space - necrophilia
suicide, guided suicide, blood as lube, self harm, cutting, bleeding to death, death
Traitors hold no worth in Voldemorts' eyes. it's a fact that anyone you ask would know. Traitors are pathetic and weak and should not live, and regulus had heard those words repeat like whispers in the walls, taunting him and pushing him.
He didn't agree with what he had done, what he wants to do is run and hide and leave but he discovered Tom Riddle and his secrets, he wants to help be something to end this war and he is so very afraid.
Voldemort is glad Regulus is afraid. He knows the boy is unloyal and he will make the Black Family sacrifice be that exactly.
Like a lamb to slaughter regulus walks himself to Tom Riddle's office, a personal request, not uncommon but significantly more terrifying with the knowledge he holds.
Tom let's him enter, a calf walking to the slaughter house and he just stares, red eyes staring into grey, souls meet and memories melt together, he spreads open his memories and sees countless thoughts of betrayal and grief and regret. How pathetic.
Regulus is doomed. He has written his fate and he cannot fight it and so he waits.
Instead he opens his eyes to meet a blade.
"You're going to cut yourself for every thought you have against me, and if you survive it, I shall forgive you, but there will be no aid, no spells, and no return from it"
Regulus has no choice, and so he takes the blade. It's handed to him in a way that has his palm splitting in two as he grabs it. There is no other way.
With one cut done, he already feels weak. His palm bleeds nonstop as he adjusts his grip, he looks to voldemort one more time, knowing he cant survive this and he cuts across his wrist, then again, and again, and again.
His arms are covered in scratches from the blade, blood dripping onto the floor and his head feels heavy. Regulus cuts and cuts and cuts, there is no room left on his pale arms that isnt already leaking crimson.
Some are so deep he can see muscle and he fears the risk of survival even though it is so minimal.
Tom's hands are on him now, stripping his clothes, taking his dignity with his life, giving him more flesh to scorn, to punish and to stain.
He continous to cut, obeying the order, sliding the metal against his ribs, he wonders if it feels his heart racing, he drags it across his thighs, splitting the skin in two, bursing at his own seems, a puppet cut from the puppeteers strings.
Regulus thinks he's crying, the pain is numbing him and he can only see Tom.
Tom, who watches with hooded eyes and an expectation of death, he brings his fingers to the cuts on the paling boys arm, and he digs them in, curling them into the blood and flesh. It's warm. He chuckles.
He uses the blood coated fingers to find regulus' hole, the boy still chopping away at himself like a chef to a board. The grip is weaker, but Tom knows he's trying.
Regulus drops his blade and his body is being explored, he's dizzy from blood loss and he thinks he's falling but tom is holding him, tom is spreading his body apart on his fingers, his fingers are sliding in and out of regulus' weak body and then theyre not.
His back hits the cold floor and he can feel the blood trickling down the skin towards the ground instead of down the length of him, his legs are being raised, he's like a limp doll as voldemort strokes his length in the blood, then he pushes their bodies together.
Regulus can't breathe, not properly. It's slow and aching, and he hurts all over. There's a burning sensation tickling him everywhere. He barely notices his body being used. Pressure builds and leaves with each thrust. He is beyond it.
Tom watches as his eyes lose their life, feels his chest stop rising and falling, hears the end of those hollow pants, and he enjoys it.
Pleasure builds alongside the heat of the body around him and the blood it weeps, there is no fight, only acceptance and death and blood.
It overwhelms Tom, burning him from within, desire and attraction bubbling into the feeling of murder which he lives to feel, he enjoys this, he thrusts harder.
He grips regulus' body, the flesh fresh and reactive, the cuts bleed more when he squeezes his thighs, he smells iron and he can taste it in the back of his throat as he cums.
Tom doesn't dare cum inside, a waste, but he watches as white mixes with red.
He hopes nagini enjoys her meal. Pathetic traitor had always tasted so sweet.
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