Work Text:
Sex and death. For some reason they go together like left and right hands. When most people think of Death Eaters they think of only the right hand, because they're not part of the cult, the secret society. But like all cults, all secret societies, the sinister hand is dominant, the right forming its public manifestation. Murder is something that blasts groups apart, so you need the most powerful force in the world to bind a group together, to provide more potent blackmail material, deeper shame.
Often muggles and blood traitors and the like form the material, but they are for rituals of a different sort to the orgies amongst members that take place on the Sabbats, the celebration and worship of the Dark Lord. During those Death Eaters are inducted into full membership via the secret sister to the Mark, an equably indelible one. At those the chosen one, who has proven themselves already, must make a more intimate sacrifice, allowing the others, as well as the Dark Lord himself, to use them however is wished. One must say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and keep good cheer. There must be no mudblood style whining, no matter what.
As the members of the cult are already universally promiscuous, they all imagine they have reached the depth of sexual depravity by the time they reach the height of being the next sacrifice. By that point they've participated in every atrocity imaginable to normal people, and more, but fear of pain often compels them to get wasted on wine and weed beforehand. That is not counted against them, and in fact Voldemort sees it as a compliment, noting the terror behind the action.
As one of the more cowardly Death Eaters, one of those looking to associate with bullies of like mind with himself, Igor Karkaroff almost goes mad waiting for his turn, fears he's going to lose control of his faculties and more importantly, his bowels, the instant hands go for his robes. He's abused animals, children, the unwilling, but to have abuse dished out to his precious body? No. No. In order to deal with what is coming he goes the time honoured route of getting plastered, not so plastered as not to be able to stand, but enough to take the edge off, and also enough that his slurring provokes sniggers amongst his colleagues when he arrives for the ceremony, far out in woods shrouding ancient barrows. He's slept with all of them before, and they all know about his personal quirks, can point to his moles through his clothes, but private is infinitely different to public.
“Looking a bit pale there, Karkaroff.” says Dolohov from the branches of a gnarled oak. A fellow Russian, but much more stereotypical than his countryman, he's a low class pit bull to Igor’s sleek aristocratic spaniel, hailing from modern Russia, rather than the Imperial days like Igor. Despite this, they get on rather well, as members of the same race typically do when surrounded by foreigners, and see each other after hours more than most of their fellows would believe. Indeed, Dolohov adds a wink and a crooked smile to the end of his ribbing.
He'd kill me in an instant, thinks Igor, his head swinging away from his closest friend towards his second closest. Severus Snape stands with Lucius Malfoy and his people, all of them looking like they're about to attend a mildly boring soiree rather than a blood orgy. What an insult. The sacrificial lamb stomps over, his stride changing to a glide halfway across the wet grass. Wouldn't do to antagonize anyone just then.
“Glad you could make it, Igor. I'm rather looking forward to tonight. What about you? I hear the Dark Lord has something special planned for you.” drawls Snape, evil amusement glittering away deep in his dark eyes, never mind that he too gets on rather well with the Russian. Like a lot of people involved in the cult, a lot of ugly people, he finds the sex part to be a massive draw, but you'd never catch him saying so. No, that wouldn't match with his dignified, haughty persona. Igor, however, is not ugly, and so having to pass himself around is very often a downgrade and a debasement. Something he makes far too obvious, leading to more downgrades and debasements. He never learns.
“Eurgh.” Too drunk and afraid to be coherent, he can only grunt, sending more slimy smiles arcing around the group. Yes, there's nothing like torturing a coward. They really do die many times.
As the Witch Cults of old had it, a bonfire bursts into life in the middle of the shaded field of tombs, a green bonfire, unearthly music drifting from between the staring trees, a silhouette appearing where none was before, emerald flames seeming to lick it. Voldemort, though diabolical in visage, still retains a shadow of his old beauty, and that is what Igor uses to console himself as he approaches the figure in black, the last comfort of the raped. At least my abuser isn't ugly. Not that Igor would ever use the R Word in reference to himself. No, that's for muggles and other weaklings. He's participating in a glorious ritual.
“Come.” whispers the Dark Lord, only his blood red eyes visible now, magnified massively by the green flames behind him. The fear he is capable of generating in his old body can not be underestimated. But the desire is equal to it, and it is the combination of the two which spellbinds, creating the thing muggles call ‘charisma’, a sort of uncastable, unlearnable magic which flings doors open everywhere. You either have it or you don't. Even amongst his followers there are some so gifted, and some not, and even Voldemort can't bestow it on those who lack. Handsome Igor has it, grotesque Bellatrix has it, ugly Snape has it in spades, pretty Lucius and vicious Dolohov do not. It's a funny thing. Cannot be lost, cannot be gained.
So the cult approaches, a trembling Igor forced to remain in the centre by his comrades lining up to either side of him.
“Our revels have come around again, and the world trembles.” hisses Voldemort, his eyes passing over them all to land on his feast for this particular occasion. Human bodies, so similar but so different. Igor will provide him with much amusement, being the passionate Slav that he is, unlike the stiff lipped and dour English and others that make up the majority of his gang. He anticipates much gasping, whimpering, and even tears, everything he likes to see in a lover. “And so does our dear Igor.”
In response Igor lets out a delicious whimper, falling to his knees because his legs refuse to continue holding him up.
As a reward, Voldemort runs a finger along the man's weak jaw. “That's what I like to see…Prepare him for me.”
Being stripped is one thing, but worse is in store for him - he's compelled to strip himself, to give himself to the group and his master, a humiliation increased by his shaking hands and the lamp light eyes watching every move from all sides. It feels like being underwater, far underwater, where monsters lurk. All transparent skin, dreadful fangs and overlarge eyes staring back at the alien amongst them, looking for weakness, filled with lust. Leaves rattle, nature's jeers.
Once he's without his protective covering, his protection from the elements and the perversity of others, they, like vampires, like leeches, leap at him, pushing down him onto a barrow, the ancient soil like daggers in his back. Antonin shoves Lucius out of the way with a hand to the face, determined to be first. In response Severus takes a hold of Igor's left wrist, kissing the mark there, while Beatrix cackles, her lips already red with the sacrifice’s blood. It hurts, it hurts as much as Igor feared it would, but it's the usual sort of physical pain coming from a body overwhelmed and forced into unnatural situations, not the unimaginable supernatural torment still to come. When he screams his mouth and nose is covered by many hands, the muffled noises that much more entertaining to those banqueting on him.
The Dark Lord looks upon the savage rutting of his followers with a haughty look upon his face. Of course he cannot be afflicted with desire, especially not for a mere servant, but his touch is a blessing, even when it's a punishment. It is a heresy to charge him with having feelings or an ego that can be damaged, but he takes every defection by one of these chosen ones just as if a true and devoted lover had abandoned him. Should they do so, he might be lenient, provided they grovel and beg to be taken back, but if they fail to do so he would exact all the fury of a man scorned.
When everyone has had their turn with Igor, and leaves, dirt, and blood cover his sweaty skin, Voldemort glides over to where the victim was thrown, exhausted and ravished on one of the fallen standing stones. His wand trails over the shuddering flesh and the mess the others have made of it, stopping at the Mark, which seems like it is attempting to tear its way out of the skin in which it was set.
“I’m going to make you wish you were dead, dear Igor. And I'm going to make you pray never to die. Beg me to do it.” Voldemort says, in a fatal whisper.
“P-please, Master…have y-your way with me.”
The tip of the wand presses into the mouth of the tattooed skull, a long fingered hand alighting upon a cheek, its thumb molesting a badly bitten lip. He'll violate and abuse the body beneath him the same as the others have, but his interest hinges on that body being in desperate pain. First there have to be tears he can wipe away and wounds he can heal. From the depths of torment he will bring relief and pleasure, and for that he will be loved and admired, forever.
“There’s a good boy…crucio.”