Title: "Alternatives"
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Characters: Morfin Gaunt/Quirrell, Voldemort/Quirrell
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, Morfin Gaunt, Squickiness, slight crackiness? (Did you see the pairings?)
Themes/kinks chosen: Morfin Gaunt/Quirrel, castrati
Word Count: 1520
Summary: Quirrell lays in his bed at night, fidgeting. He used to sleep well, find comfort on his back in the softness of down blankets and the firmness of a good pillow and equally supportive mattress. But now he lays awake for hours, unable to deal with his own bony elbow poking into the side he has to lay on or to adjust to the soft pillow he must use now.
Author's notes: I'm sorry. Where was I supposed to go with this pairing? I mean, really? I think writing Morfin Gaunt in a fluffy romance would be far more terrifying than having him in a darker fic. Right? Right? :P



Quirrell lays in his bed at night, fidgeting. He used to sleep well, find comfort on his back in the softness of down blankets and the firmness of a good pillow and equally supportive mattress. But now he lays awake for hours, unable to deal with his own bony elbow poking into the side he has to lay on or to adjust to the soft pillow he must use now. He realises the irony in his situation: that it's not actually the thoughts of or from the entity he's host to now that keep him awake at night. It's the damn change in position that he cannot escape, all brought about by the jutting face on the back of his head.

Not that his sleep is particularly restful when it does happen. His dreams get tangled together with one another and twisted with images that are not his. That reoccurring one about the blue rabbit and the tin of peas suddenly takes place in a cave filled with red hair. And the ridiculous one about the dancing shoe no longer makes him grin when he thinks of it. He really wishes he could forget about shoes entirely at this point but there is a policy about teachers' dress and he simply can't handle being in Dumbledore's office for that. Or much else for that matter.

At first he considered sedative potions or even lavender sachets to assist his sleep. But the first was forbidden outright by his new companion and the second made the half-embodied Dark Lord sneeze down the back of Quirrell's neck. Quirrell took care to avoid the flower at all costs after that. After all, he wasn't stupid... except that bit about wandering through that supposedly vampire-infested forest and getting himself possessed by the darkest wizard of the 20th century. But that wasn't really his fault, was it? He'd like to see anyone resist something that he didn't know was there, couldn't see anyway, and didn't stand a chance against even if he had. So that was that. Possession? Check. Avoiding lavender and Voldemort snot? Check. Nightmares, new pillows, fancy headware? Check, check, and check.

Now if only he could sleep. He stares at the wall opposite his bed. It's unassuming wallpaper, one he picked out with a wave of a hand at one of the books. He didn't care about such things so long as it was not the tired grey stone of his schooldays or that harvest gold and avocado green floral rubbish that was all the rage during the short-lived Muggle Chic fad a few years ago. Now Quirrell wishes he took longer in picking out what he's been staring at for the last few months for hours at a time. Maybe some wallpaper with an optical illusion if you look at it just right. Or a maze he could visually meander through. Or a word search. He likes word searches and imagine just how many words would be hidden in an entire room of walls.

“You're an idiot, Quirrell,” hisses the back of his head.

Quirrell's shoulders slump against the mattress- even his thoughts of keeping himself entertained aren't private. At least he doesn't want to try to wank with-

“By all means. I won't stop you if you want to indulge that nasty little habit of yours.”

He sighed. He certainly wasn't going to do something that could sound like such an encouraged idea in that voice. “No, my lord. I am merely finding it difficult to sleep. Again.”

“Do you want assistance with that?” came the hiss that made his scalp tingle.

“My lord?” He'd never offered this before- had Quirrell never made mention of it out loud? Was he waiting for the request for help?

“You've never asked for my help, Quirrell. Do you think I couldn't do something as menial as assist you in sleeping?”

“Of course not,” he answers quickly. He's also not stupid enough to doubt his power or to answer him dishonestly. “I just never thought to ask you.”

“Ask me now. I'm feeling... generous today.”

Ignoring that quiver of cold in his stomach in favor of actually sleeping for once, Quirrell makes his request, “Would you please help me sleep, my lord?”

His eyes drift closed to the sound of rasping laughter.

When they open again, he's not staring at the wallpaper any more. He's staring at himself. He's still in his bedroom but on his knees between two figures, one tall and thin with skin like bleached vellum and the other squat and misshapen with a mouth half full of rotted teeth. The first is unmistakably Voldemort, but the second he doesn't know, though there's something familiar about the crossed eyes and sharp line of the mouth.

It takes Quirrell exactly 8.2 seconds to understand what is happening. The two figures are ramming their cocks (pale and lumpy, respectively) into his head. Another 3.1 seconds later, Quirrell understand how it is happening. The him on his knees has two faces, the one he should have and one on the back of his head, where Voldemort's both should and should not be.

He stares at the scene before him. Like the proverbial self-transfiguration accident, he can't look away. The Voldemort standing there is clothed in black robes, thin and flowing like ether, and the Whoever is naked but for a pair of dirty socks, one large, hairy toe poking through an especially dingy spot. Quirrell decides he'd much rather look at Voldemort's slim lines, even if one particular line is thrust in and out of the kneeling Quirrell's mouth. It's better than the alternative.

“Actually, Quirrell, there are other alternatives you have failed to consider,” hisses a voice around him.

It happens in an instant. He finds himself no longer an observer but a participant, the participant. His mouth, no his mouths, are open, filled by cocks that work over his tongues in irregular, unmatched rhythms. Voldemort's slides slow and deep, tasting of dry bone and cold; it makes Quirrell's tongue sting. His balls are hard, covered with iridescent scales that scratch ever so lightly on Quirrell's chin. The other is more desperate, rutting into his mouth with an uneven cock that is at once turgid and flaccid, tasting of dried sweat and acrid leather. His sac hangs wrinkled, scarred, and empty, occasionally forced over lip and tongue with the rest of his mangled sex. Quirrell starts to gag, a single throat seizing up at the repulsive intrusions.

“Vomitting will only encourage him, Quirrell.” The voice was above him, below him, and inside his head, vibrating his tongue with the sibilate speech. “Oh, I've forgotten to introduce you, haven't I?” he continues in a style that could very well be used over tea instead of during mental and oral rape. “This is my uncle, Morfin Gaunt. Say hello, Uncle Morfin.”

Quirrell's eyes swivel up to the deformed face of this Morfin, shuddering at the leaking pustules dotting his hairy skin. Morfin grins, broad and horrific like a deranged victim of strangulation, and hisses out what Quirrell won't even assume is a greeting. But it's loud and wet and when Morfin exposes his teeth again, one topples out, hitting one of Quirrell's cheeks before landing with a clatter on the wood floor.

He finds he can't move his arms to push away, can't move at all, can't escape the rasping laughter of Voldemort or avoid getting his mouths stuffed full of cock and disgust. He tries, but all efforts to object, to scream become loud moans of pleasure. His own groin becomes heated, his skin there tight and sensitive, unmistakable; and his own apparent, terrible arousal horrifies Quirrell above all else.

“Aren't you going to do something about that, Quirrell?”

It's not actually a question and before he can stop himself, his hand is going to crotch- how could he make himself not move if he couldn't move in the first place? The thought is there for an instant then gone, as his hand comes into contact, not with his cock, but with a nose, flat and flared, and a mouth, narrow and smirking. The face that won't let him sleep. That won't let him live.

Quirrell's eyes roll back in his head, all four of them, without even the faintest awareness of their own joke. And he slides into the blackness of Voldemort's robes.

***

He wakes innocuously enough, eyes slowly opening on the wallpaper across from him. Gradually focusing on the subtle stripes of it. It's a few blissful moments where this morning just feels like every other morning, but then he feels the smirk on the back of his head and then he remembers.

Merlin help him, the only comforting thought is that it was all just some possession-induced nightmare designed to keep him disgusted even in his sleep. And prevent him from ever thinking about sex ever again. Just a nightmare.

At least that's what he thought until he steps on half of a blackened, pitted tooth on his way to the toilet.