((Guro fic. Death. Mild SiriHarry. Abstract writing.))

The things that could land you immediately in Azkaban (filthy, vial place that it is and always will be) were few. Understandably, they were (sick, vile, cruel)...terrible.

Sirius Black (God father, escapee, loved, hated), a man among many, was currently breaking about two of the laws that wound you up in Azkaban without thought.

One was the act of stripping a child (a teenager, Harry's a teenager, not a child) of their innocence.

("I...I can f-feel..."

"The breaking point?")

The second was murder (not murder), or in this case, assisted suicide(but not really suicide, either).

(He's inside me...I...I can f-feel..."

"The breaking point?")

He's inside me. Devouring every fiber of my body and mind. It hurts, it hurts so much, but not as much as it feels...

In a way (a small, fractional way), he found this to be helping the boy(teenager, not boy).

In another, he found it so sick (disgusting, evil, horrifying).

...wonderful.

("The breaking point?")

The boy withered and moaned under him.

In one hand (the one gently caressing his cheek, so soft) was the boy's existence and in another (the one with veins practically popping out, the one who hates himself) a knife the boy gave to him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy this (sick, sick, twisted and demented, but amazing in some way). And in a way, he thinks enjoying it is better then not (because would he be able to do this if he didn't?).

The boy opened green eyes (Lily's, his mother, a woman's eyes so strange against male features), and bit his lip. "Now," he whispered. "Do it now."

Sirius hesitated. He'd already gone so far (could he turn back), and the boy was already bleeding so heavily (should this much blood loss even be possible?), he'd be doing him a favor to put him out of his misery (a favor, hah, a favor).

("What are you asking me to do?"

"...nothing bad. Please, Sirius, it's nothing-"

"Harry, you just grabbed my collar and told me to fuck you.")

His back arched. The boy (teenager) was 15, yet he was so bony (so skinny and fragile). Ribs showing as he meshed (combined, practically) his flesh—bloody broken hole, too, of a stomach. That's where Harry told him to cut—with Sirius's, existence's(souls)melting into one.

("So...you know for a fact he's been controlling you? Since when? Why didn't you tell me?"

"..."

"Harry?"

"...he feels so g-good inside..."

"Harry, please stop...please stop crying. Inside what?"

"...me.")

Dully, Sirius felt skin (thin, fabric, almost translucent) as he pushed his hand into the wound. He felt rather vividly (so hypersensitive) the skin of everything else in Harry; he couldn't see how the boy (teenager, teenager, teenager) found this so enjoyable (so sexual), being...poked on the inside. And yet he sat there, heavy breath (like a dying dog) mingling with soft moans.

And Sirius pulled. Like Harry told him to, he ripped the boy apart from the inside. He could slowly see the life drifting from the boy's eyes.

He reached down and pecked the boys lips with his own (those small, red lips against his thin, brown ones). He could taste the red liquid spewing from his mouth in great rivers (like a flood of the senses).

"Siri..."

Both of them had tried not to talk during this. The sound of the boy's (deathly) voice made Sirius' heart ache.

"Tell..."

"Yes?"

"...the world...that I'm sorry."

Sirius blinked.

Then, the boy smiled (how could he have the strength?), and laughed; red sprinkles of his life (his soul) came from his choked mouth.

"I'm...I'm not strong enough."

And the boy gave one last pant, rolled back his head, and died.