"To some, a monster, and to others, a leader. Either way, I became god."
"Did you really? Do you think God becomes trapped?"
Having just earned your doctorate, you decide to work in the Azkaban Secure Facility for the Criminally Insane. There, you...
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Slowly, your hands glide up her décolletage, smearing blood in crimson lines up her neck, until they come to rest around her throat. You can feel her pulse beneath your fingers, beating quickly like the wings of a hummingbird, an unsteady, desperate, fast-paced pulsing. She inhales sharply and quivers beneath you, whimpering a plea that is completely and utterly lost on you.
Your hands collar her throat, wrapping gently around her neck. Agonisingly slowly, you tighten them. You compress downwards, letting out a noise of frustration from the effort. You feel her carotid arteries on the left and right sides of her neck, just below her skin, and you press down hard, screaming in rage. She's crying, begging for help, as you strangle the life out of her. With the arteries blocked, blood is unable to travel to her brain.
She soon goes limp. Her hands go slack in Tom's grip, and her chest slumps, practically concaving under your weight.
It's not enough - you know it's not enough. She's just unconscious. You keep going. Harder. More intensely, staring at her bloodshot eyes rolling back, burst capillaries popping across her sclera in a macabre constellation of red, into her skull and you just can't stop looking at her. She looked different now, far from the kind girl she had been just hours ago. You don't loosen your grip, even fractionally. You remain that way, panting from exertion, your hands wrapped around her neck, for minutes.
Time stretches slowly on, and she doesn't twitch. Not once. It's difficult for you to tear your eyes away from her. Dolohov's death had been quick, a bludgeoning where the intent couldn't even really be described as murder, and you'd been in a complete daze the entire time. It had felt like fighting for your life. This felt like something more. The amount of power you held was incredible. Your hands, stained red, had brought about the deaths of two people far more powerful than you.
It felt absolutely addictive.
Once upon a time, you had told Tom that 'It's human nature to want to gratify anger through violence. It lets us feel safe, in control. Powerful. If you're asking the worst way I'd ever been tempted to kill, I'd say with my bare hands. It's more personal. More raw. You get to watch, so closely, as you end their life. Though, there's something equally rewarding about seeing their blood everywhere. It lets you know that you've won.'
Now, you certainly feel like a winner. Triumphant. Victorious.
And she's dead. At your hand. Almost reluctantly, you release your hands from her neck. Tom's staring at you so, so proudly. His lips are slightly parted, there's some blood on his face, and he's staring at you like he's bewitched. You are, too. Positively spellbound, even. You abandon Hestia's corpse, crawling towards Tom, your breathing ragged, never once taking your eyes off him.
"Y/N," Tom says breathily. "You were glorious."
He pulls you roughly into his lap, his hands snaking up to grasp at your wrists harshly, his fingertips resting against your pulse point. He kisses you demandingly, desperately, coaxing your tongue with his. You taste blood, an almighty, feral explosion of copper across your tongue. It tastes like power – like a wicked combination of the two of you.
