lysrouge & fluffyllama
Author: lysrouge
Title: Eulogy
Pairing: Voldemort/Peter
Challenge: You've claimed all this time that you would die for me/Why then are you so surprised to hear your own eulogy? - Tool, Eulogy
Peter cowered before him in a suppliant position. Long flaky fingers ran along his cheek, the sharp nail leaving behind a trail of red.
“You left him there. You said you’d die for me and yet you let him get away,” Voldemort rasped, slicing his finger across Peter’s neck. “I’d send you out again, but I doubt it would do any good.”
“Sorry, my Lord,” Peter stuttered.
He pushed aside Voldemort’s robes, licking his lips. He hated this part, but knew he had no choice. It was this or death. He slowly took the peeling cock into his mouth, the flakes falling flat to his tongue. Red eyes gazed down at him as he brought him off.
Voldemort snorted, “Not as sorry as I.” With that he pressed his wand to Peter’s jaw - whose eyes widened in surprise. “Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, the man falling limp to the ground.
Title: Broken Promises
Author: fluffyllama
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, squicky descriptions, character death.
Peter could still remember the first promise he'd ever made. Not the "Of course I'll be good" promises his mother always fell for, but his first solemn oath, sworn with three other boys that were his first real friends.
He'd resented having to share a room with strangers at first - until the day Malfoy, Mulciber and Nott bundled him into the Slytherin changing rooms and pulled at his robes, all smirks and sneers and taunts. Even though he wasn't sure what they'd had in mind, it was a relief when James' "Pettigrew? Was that you I heard---Hey!" had rung out and much friendlier hands had yanked him out of there.
"Stick with us, and we won't let them beat you up," the fair-haired boy with the kind face had said, and the others had nodded solemnly, their eyes wide. Peter wondered occasionally if that was what they really thought would have happened, but he never asked. Instead he swore the tongue-twisting oath they asked for, and put hippogriff dung in Filch's drawer to complete his initiation. It had been well worth a fortnight of detentions to spend almost seven years in their shadow.
He'd already made a mockery of the first promise by the time he made his second. James was long dead, Remus and Sirius old before their years from poverty and prison. He'd have sworn a new oath; anything they wanted - anything Harry wanted - but there was nothing he could offer them except his death. He was worth less than nothing; always had been to them, he could see that now.
At least the Dark Lord needed him. He took the Mark, and its offered protection, more than a decade after he'd damned himself, and swore his life away. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do with it.
The attention of the other Death Eaters had been a pleasant change at first, even though he’d had doubts about his reception when the Dark Lord first called them all together. No longer hidden behind the mask, but there at his Lord’s right hand… or at least his left, in plain sight. He’d wrapped his new status around him like a cloak, a barrier against the political storms and wranglings that beset their reduced ranks. He’d looked forward to getting the recognition he deserved, rubbing their noses in his achievements; him, the fat, stupid little nothing that so many of them had despised at school.
But the eyes that followed him from room to room, the voices that hushed when he came too close; it had never been from respect. They’d made that quite clear the first time the Dark Lord had been occupied elsewhere. He was just a target, nothing had changed.
Naked and shivering on the cellar floor, his arms and legs grazed from rough manhandling, he had gazed up wide-eyed into the sagging, heavy-browed face of Mulciber, and known that there was nobody coming to his rescue this time.
“Think you’re special, do you, Pettigrew? Think you’re going to be the Dark Lord’s pampered little pet now you're a real Death Eater?”
A foot cracked into his ribs, and he splayed on his back, banging his shoulder. He was faintly aware of another spray of freezing water, and felt his balls shrivel up as another kick sank into his belly.
“You’re a nothing, do you hear me? You were just in the right place at the right time.”
A calloused hand grabbed him under his arm and dragged him face to groin with Nott, half-naked and stroking a gloved hand up and down his thick, purpling erection.
“And now… you’re not.”
And when the Dark Lord called them all together again, and he'd stood there with his bruises and bloodied lips on display, he'd waited. Waited for his Lord to ask what had happened, who had done this to the man that had restored him to life.
Waited for his Lord's attention to fall on him.
He hadn't had to wait long.
"Wormtail?" White fingers beckoned him closer.
Peter scurried to his Lord's feet and knelt.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"I hear you have a remarkably talented mouth."
Peter's hopes withered and died right there at his Lord's feet, cringing under that sly smirk.
"I-"
And whatever protest he might have made died with them, as the Dark Lord's robes fell open before him.
He hated it, and the Dark Lord knew it. More than the taste of ashy death and scaly reptile in his mouth, he hated the sneers and contempt of his so-called colleagues. He hated the squirm of that old viper in his gut more than he did the flakes of skin from the ever-shedding flesh he was obliged to service whenever he displeased the Dark Lord.
Or failed, once more, to live up to his promises.
"On your knees, you useless wretch."
Peter shivered, his grimy robes torn and soaked through with rain and blood. He pulled free of Malfoy's grip and fell awkwardly to the floor.
He cowered before his Lord in a suppliant position. Long flaky fingers ran along his cheek, the sharp nails leaving behind a trail of red.
“You left him there. You said you’d die for me, and yet you let Harry Potter get away once more,” Voldemort rasped, slicing his finger across Peter’s neck. “I’d send you out again, but I doubt it would do any good.”
“Sorry, my Lord,” Peter stuttered.
He pushed aside Voldemort’s robes, licking his lips. He hated this part, but knew he had no choice. It was this or death. He slowly took the peeling cock into his mouth, the flakes falling flat to his tongue. Red eyes gazed down at him as he brought him off.
Voldemort snorted, “Not as sorry as I.” With that he pressed his wand to Peter’s jaw - whose eyes widened in surprise. “Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, the man falling limp to the ground.
Title: Eulogy
Pairing: Voldemort/Peter
Challenge: You've claimed all this time that you would die for me/Why then are you so surprised to hear your own eulogy? - Tool, Eulogy
Peter cowered before him in a suppliant position. Long flaky fingers ran along his cheek, the sharp nail leaving behind a trail of red.
“You left him there. You said you’d die for me and yet you let him get away,” Voldemort rasped, slicing his finger across Peter’s neck. “I’d send you out again, but I doubt it would do any good.”
“Sorry, my Lord,” Peter stuttered.
He pushed aside Voldemort’s robes, licking his lips. He hated this part, but knew he had no choice. It was this or death. He slowly took the peeling cock into his mouth, the flakes falling flat to his tongue. Red eyes gazed down at him as he brought him off.
Voldemort snorted, “Not as sorry as I.” With that he pressed his wand to Peter’s jaw - whose eyes widened in surprise. “Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, the man falling limp to the ground.
Title: Broken Promises
Author: fluffyllama
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, squicky descriptions, character death.
Peter could still remember the first promise he'd ever made. Not the "Of course I'll be good" promises his mother always fell for, but his first solemn oath, sworn with three other boys that were his first real friends.
He'd resented having to share a room with strangers at first - until the day Malfoy, Mulciber and Nott bundled him into the Slytherin changing rooms and pulled at his robes, all smirks and sneers and taunts. Even though he wasn't sure what they'd had in mind, it was a relief when James' "Pettigrew? Was that you I heard---Hey!" had rung out and much friendlier hands had yanked him out of there.
"Stick with us, and we won't let them beat you up," the fair-haired boy with the kind face had said, and the others had nodded solemnly, their eyes wide. Peter wondered occasionally if that was what they really thought would have happened, but he never asked. Instead he swore the tongue-twisting oath they asked for, and put hippogriff dung in Filch's drawer to complete his initiation. It had been well worth a fortnight of detentions to spend almost seven years in their shadow.
He'd already made a mockery of the first promise by the time he made his second. James was long dead, Remus and Sirius old before their years from poverty and prison. He'd have sworn a new oath; anything they wanted - anything Harry wanted - but there was nothing he could offer them except his death. He was worth less than nothing; always had been to them, he could see that now.
At least the Dark Lord needed him. He took the Mark, and its offered protection, more than a decade after he'd damned himself, and swore his life away. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do with it.
The attention of the other Death Eaters had been a pleasant change at first, even though he’d had doubts about his reception when the Dark Lord first called them all together. No longer hidden behind the mask, but there at his Lord’s right hand… or at least his left, in plain sight. He’d wrapped his new status around him like a cloak, a barrier against the political storms and wranglings that beset their reduced ranks. He’d looked forward to getting the recognition he deserved, rubbing their noses in his achievements; him, the fat, stupid little nothing that so many of them had despised at school.
But the eyes that followed him from room to room, the voices that hushed when he came too close; it had never been from respect. They’d made that quite clear the first time the Dark Lord had been occupied elsewhere. He was just a target, nothing had changed.
Naked and shivering on the cellar floor, his arms and legs grazed from rough manhandling, he had gazed up wide-eyed into the sagging, heavy-browed face of Mulciber, and known that there was nobody coming to his rescue this time.
“Think you’re special, do you, Pettigrew? Think you’re going to be the Dark Lord’s pampered little pet now you're a real Death Eater?”
A foot cracked into his ribs, and he splayed on his back, banging his shoulder. He was faintly aware of another spray of freezing water, and felt his balls shrivel up as another kick sank into his belly.
“You’re a nothing, do you hear me? You were just in the right place at the right time.”
A calloused hand grabbed him under his arm and dragged him face to groin with Nott, half-naked and stroking a gloved hand up and down his thick, purpling erection.
“And now… you’re not.”
And when the Dark Lord called them all together again, and he'd stood there with his bruises and bloodied lips on display, he'd waited. Waited for his Lord to ask what had happened, who had done this to the man that had restored him to life.
Waited for his Lord's attention to fall on him.
He hadn't had to wait long.
"Wormtail?" White fingers beckoned him closer.
Peter scurried to his Lord's feet and knelt.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"I hear you have a remarkably talented mouth."
Peter's hopes withered and died right there at his Lord's feet, cringing under that sly smirk.
"I-"
And whatever protest he might have made died with them, as the Dark Lord's robes fell open before him.
He hated it, and the Dark Lord knew it. More than the taste of ashy death and scaly reptile in his mouth, he hated the sneers and contempt of his so-called colleagues. He hated the squirm of that old viper in his gut more than he did the flakes of skin from the ever-shedding flesh he was obliged to service whenever he displeased the Dark Lord.
Or failed, once more, to live up to his promises.
"On your knees, you useless wretch."
Peter shivered, his grimy robes torn and soaked through with rain and blood. He pulled free of Malfoy's grip and fell awkwardly to the floor.
He cowered before his Lord in a suppliant position. Long flaky fingers ran along his cheek, the sharp nails leaving behind a trail of red.
“You left him there. You said you’d die for me, and yet you let Harry Potter get away once more,” Voldemort rasped, slicing his finger across Peter’s neck. “I’d send you out again, but I doubt it would do any good.”
“Sorry, my Lord,” Peter stuttered.
He pushed aside Voldemort’s robes, licking his lips. He hated this part, but knew he had no choice. It was this or death. He slowly took the peeling cock into his mouth, the flakes falling flat to his tongue. Red eyes gazed down at him as he brought him off.
Voldemort snorted, “Not as sorry as I.” With that he pressed his wand to Peter’s jaw - whose eyes widened in surprise. “Avada Kedavra,” he whispered, the man falling limp to the ground.