Potterporn: Sirius/Voldemort/Kreacher
NC17
Disclaimer: All things Potter are the copyrighted property of people other
than me. I use them without permission, that use in no way is intended to
challenge said ownership.
Warnings: OotP spoilers, Kink, including but not limited to: Bestiality,
necrophilia, semi non-con, and implied Chan.
AN After Time really didn't need a sequel so I wrote one. This is somewhat
confusing even if you read that one first.
She watched them frolic, black and white, tumbling over each other, his joy so alive it was almost visibly pulsing from his dark fur. She sipped her tea from black bone china, the heat burning red the paper thin skin of her ancient hands. She could have set the cup aside, waited for it to cool, but instead she gripped tighter, pain searing into the memory she would always have of a white wolf coaxing her little black dog into the clearing in the wood.
She gulped a mouthful of tea, the heat scalding the roof of her mouth and throat. It was fresh and steaming hot, silently left beside her window seat. She sat watching the empty tree line while Kreacher watched her from his place at her feet, just as he always did.
These memories, where had they come from?
But of course there was no memory here, this place of nothing and all that he shared with Kreacher. No self left, his most intimate moments open to the wretched scrabbling of house elf claws. So many cherished intimacies; Lupin lowering his lashes in the common room and the rush of knowing what they would soon be doing, James kissing the nape of his neck before turning to Lily and the tiny squeeze of his fingers she gave him, all tiny intimacies horded and cherished, the secret loves that hadn't bloomed. That invasion, that rape of his most private memories hurt worse than any trip to the wooded glade, and that he had likewise violated Kreacher made him that much more bitter.
You won't succeed. I am not a monster.
You are whatever I decide you are.
And new memories, glimpses terrible and raw, becoming part of him. Cruciatus ohdeargod the awful power of it, raging through him, sexual, overwhelming intensity again and again: Cruciatus. So aroused, so violent, watching the wretched twisting of agony on the floor. Then Avada Kedavra and a surge, blood alive, magic coursing better than sex through his veins, almost blacking out from pleasure as James died on the floor.
no
Then he was walking out of the woods, carefully, trying to minimize the dull ache throbbing inside him, He reached out and took his hand, stroking it comfortingly. And he was walking back from the wood triumphantly, sated, his ownership of the boy marked. The sweet tingle of aftersex lingered in him and he reached down, taking Sirius' hand, rubbing the skin that was his alone to use and taste. His. And he watched her watching them, burning herself again, and oh he's not worth it, ungrateful, always has been, please don't hurt for him, not for that brat. I've always loved you Mistress, her teacup tumbled too quick for him to catch and BAD KREACHER, undeserving wretch! A kaleidoscope of layer upon superimposed layer, all perspectives his perspective, warring, merging into him, and Sirius had no idea which memories originally belonged to him alone.
She watched them frolic, black and white, tumbling over each other, his joy so alive it was almost visibly pulsing from his dark fur. She sipped her tea from black bone china, the heat burning red the paper thin skin of her ancient hands. She could have set the cup aside, waited for it to cool, but instead she gripped tighter, pain searing into the memory she would always have of a white wolf coaxing her little black dog into the clearing in the wood.
She gulped a mouthful of tea, the heat scalding the roof of her mouth and throat. It was fresh and steaming hot, silently left beside her window seat. She sat watching the empty tree line while Kreacher watched her from his place at her feet, just as he always did.
These memories, where had they come from?
But of course there was no memory here, this place of nothing and all that he shared with Kreacher. No self left, his most intimate moments open to the wretched scrabbling of house elf claws. So many cherished intimacies; Lupin lowering his lashes in the common room and the rush of knowing what they would soon be doing, James kissing the nape of his neck before turning to Lily and the tiny squeeze of his fingers she gave him, all tiny intimacies horded and cherished, the secret loves that hadn't bloomed. That invasion, that rape of his most private memories hurt worse than any trip to the wooded glade, and that he had likewise violated Kreacher made him that much more bitter.
You won't succeed. I am not a monster.
You are whatever I decide you are.
And new memories, glimpses terrible and raw, becoming part of him. Cruciatus ohdeargod the awful power of it, raging through him, sexual, overwhelming intensity again and again: Cruciatus. So aroused, so violent, watching the wretched twisting of agony on the floor. Then Avada Kedavra and a surge, blood alive, magic coursing better than sex through his veins, almost blacking out from pleasure as James died on the floor.
no
Then he was walking out of the woods, carefully, trying to minimize the dull ache throbbing inside him, He reached out and took his hand, stroking it comfortingly. And he was walking back from the wood triumphantly, sated, his ownership of the boy marked. The sweet tingle of aftersex lingered in him and he reached down, taking Sirius' hand, rubbing the skin that was his alone to use and taste. His. And he watched her watching them, burning herself again, and oh he's not worth it, ungrateful, always has been, please don't hurt for him, not for that brat. I've always loved you Mistress, her teacup tumbled too quick for him to catch and BAD KREACHER, undeserving wretch! A kaleidoscope of layer upon superimposed layer, all perspectives his perspective, warring, merging into him, and Sirius had no idea which memories originally belonged to him alone.