HP: What She Has Left [084 - He]
Aug. 18th, 2006 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runespoorTitle: What She Has Left
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runespoor7
Prompt: 084 - He
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda, Ted (Andromeda/Ted)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2300
Summary: when Andromeda left the family, the Blacks did something a little more radical than damaging an old tapestry.
Warnings: extreme dub-con/non-con. Triggery.
"Please please please please," Andromeda begs, and Ted can't bring himself to look at her. He can barely stand to hear her voice. She only whispers now, needy, frantic breathes. Sometimes she can still cry out, and it's almost too painful.
He wants to shut off the shuddering thighs, one on each side of his head, and the mewls from her mouth. There isn't much time before her eyes start tearing up, she's too far gone and not arrived yet, and he doesn't want to see that. He has to give her what she wants, now.
Forget it's her, his mind suggests, and, selfishly, because it's easier when he doesn't remember what it's all about, he does; focusing on her core, level with his eyes, he brings his lips forward, once more, and licks and sucks and twists his tongue sharply against the hard nub that finally sends her thrashing. Her limbs are flailing wildly and he pulls away, up, away from the bed, unconsciously licking his lips, tasting her.
Aroused, he realises, by the smell and the sight of her, all that white skin – a bit grayish perhaps – and that slender figure – with sharper elbows and knees, and hips that stick out when she's laid down, like now, and that make him want to go down there on the mattress again, and to kiss them and suck them into his mouth, because they hurt easily.
She's banged her hip against the bedside table today; she'll bruise, and tomorrow she'll hurt, though she hasn't realised it.
He wants to kiss it better, but he doesn't, because she's out like a light, and she needs any rest she can get nowadays. Maybe she'll sleep until tomorrow, but Ted knows better than to make plans on it, as it's not even six yet, and hoping anything is really setting himself to be hurt.
For a moment, he stares at her. Her head is thrown back, her throat exposed, her entire body in disarray, like a broken doll abandoned on the floor. The surrounding shadow – the light from the corridor – casts harsh contrasts on her naked body, emphasising the spiky bones and the hollowed skin, and it's like watching the skeleton of an albatross. She looks almost as if she were dead, but her ribcage is rising at regular intervals, with hissing intakes of breath that seem to take more energy from her than it is worth, bones trying to break the skin from the inside.
He hates himself for staying there, as if he was expecting to see the last of her life leave her. At one time, he'd have whispered, "It's going to be alright". Ted has a lot of things to hate himself for these days, so he isn't sure if the most prominent is that he never kept true to his promise or because he stopped saying it.
In any case, it doesn't matter much, as Andromeda is in no shape to hear him. At least he hopes so.
She's not aware of much of anything actually, except for his mere presence.
Now he needs to make dinner for both of them – perhaps a light brew, something that he could get her to swallow and stomach, for once – and to start again on the dreamless sleep potions. Maybe tomorrow he'll have time to swing by the Croaker shop in Knockturn, risk his skin to leave a few vials and hopefully pick up a few more orders to bring an easily gone amount of money. Perhaps, he finds himself wishing, something less time consuming and mind-numbing than potions, though he can't see what could be. Curse-breaking and shield-weaving are what he used to love best, but demand more concentration than just keeping the contents of a cauldron from boiling.
As he's cutting the various ingredients, he finds himself musing that it's really incredibly odd, how life turns out. Star Ravenclaw, too many NEWTs to count, handsome employment proposals all over the place, as neutral on the political scale as could be hoped, given his Muggle ascendance and the roaring troubles – and there he is, surviving on off-the-radar, shady, bleak jobs. Tending to Andromeda Black's most primal needs as she lay dying.
It's not as if the two aren't linked, he reminds himself. And, should he want to leave, he doubts that she would be in a state to stop him. Technically, he has a choice there; technically, he can go out that door and never come back, and no-one will be the wiser about it. Except Andromeda's family, of course, but then again isn't this what they wanted?
He's all she has, though. He's all she is. And he supposes that's what keeps him from leaving her to die.
Addiction is such a strong word, he thinks as he puts the liquid to simmer. In Andromeda's case, it's also the only one there is. He can remember how it was before Andromeda decided to go all the way, to leave her family for him, and he really wishes he didn't, because to confront the memory of the girl that drew him in and the reality of the woman he's slowly killing, one kiss at a time, arouse feelings in him he's not comfortable with.
She made the decision all by herself, without any thought of the consequences, a typical Andromeda Black decision, and the wave of unadulterated hatred that sears through him is so violent he has to grasp the kitchen table, overcome with dizziness. God, he wants to kill the selfish bitch, to bring his hands around her neck and to snap it. Over. Or maybe he'd tighten his grip, clenching his teeth, the keening sounds that would escape from her mouth would turn him on, even now.
Maybe she'd struggle.
Maybe her hands would find his wrists and clasp around them, weakly trying to shake them off. Maybe her eyes would blink, repeatedly, widen, and finally focus through air-deprived tears, helpless, horrified, burning. Maybe her back would tense, maybe her legs would stretch, maybe she'd try to wriggle out of his grasp. Maybe he'd get to see her, really her, once more – to see her seeing him kill her.
Ted groans as his cock hardens.
He forces himself to disband the train of thought. He isn't like her. He can stop any time he wants. He will not get off on fantasising about strangling his – responsibility, he stoically shoulders the word.
A cursory glance at his watch tells him Andromeda has been asleep for almost an hour. He should fix the second part now, or all his previous efforts will have been wasted, and he'll have to extort another orgasm from her, and he doesn't want to think about the damage it will inevitably cause. He's done that mistake, two months ago; he'd been out at the shop, and he'd taken too long in coming back. He'd come back home to witness the ravages of withdrawal.
He doesn't know what had been the worse: that he'd been prepared to force himself on her weak body, to keep it from thrashing until the magic worked its way, or that he hadn't needed to, as his first touch opened her completely to him. Or the damage, afterwards. The blood he'd cleaned, the fractures he'd healed, the mess that was her magic. Ted might try to keep himself as uninvolved from politics as possible, he's read reports, he's visited friends in St Mungo's, and Andromeda looked like she'd been kept for a few weeks as a Death Eater plaything.
It doesn't make it any different that he's her torturer.
That's what he has been set up to be.
He finds Andromeda still asleep, thank God. He stays a few moments, just staring at her. She still looks like a Death Eater plaything, but then she always does, and Ted is well aware that his physical reaction to her is as unhealthy as they come. On the other hand, it has also been argued that his physical reaction to her was not healthy to be begin with, so maybe he shouldn't be that surprised. Or it's just another layer to the Blacks' plot, to bring him to see this, this twisted – whatever it is… as no more dysfunctional than any relationship between a pure-blood and a Muggle-born.
Sex and magic, he tells himself as he lowers on the bed. Always made her tick. She had a lot of strings, Andromeda – conflict, passion, and scandal – but they weren't the kind that could be snatched, that could have made her bow to a sneering Master who would have bought her with pretty words, a supple, willing slave. She'd been a slave to no-one but her own desires, and somehow the Blacks had known exactly how to play on that.
She mewls when his hands touch her breasts, and he immediately feels the nipples pricking up under the palms of his hands.
"Shh, baby," he whispers. "Shh."
Her pink tongue slips out of her mouth to lick her lips, quickly, and her legs twitch, thighs spreading apart as if, even in sleep, her body granted him easier access. A moan escapes feebly from her parted, bloodless lips. As usual, his vision blurs for a moment. He shifts on the bed until he's kneeling between her thighs, all-too-aware of the raging hard-on straining against his jeans, and hating himself for it. It's not that he's taking advantage of her, because he's not – not even mentioning that she needs this, in the same way that sane people need water, and air, and hope – but his body is enjoying it, too, when he knows very well that each time brings her a little closer to the edge.
And not just the line that people draw between sanity and madness, or between right and wrong, because clearly those have become a little blurred with the war.
Still, he opens his fly.
Clinically, the part of Ted's mind that takes Ravenclaw thirst for knowledge to an uncomfortable level wonders if she's ever going to die, even after she crosses that (supposedly) final edge, or if she's just going to cling on him some more, and that she will only die when she has sucked the entire life out of him. It would almost be a relief to find her dead, someday, except that Ted cannot imagine his life without this shell of a girl, which may mean that she's the one doing the killing, here.
As he stares vacantly ahead, pulling at the sickly, flickering aura that surrounds her, he regrets that he can't do something to stop it. There's a lot of things he can't do. Can't get money – his parents never had much in the way of wealth and now they're dead – can't get a job, can't get her to the hospital, can't get a counter curse. All consequences of the fact that his… arrangement… with Andromeda, providing her with what she needs to stay alive, is not exactly legal.
The Blacks knew what they were doing. And they probably did their homework, so the cure, if it exists at all, can only be discovered by those who have access to the family library.
He rubs all that he can of his magic against her, tweaking and adjusting and grounding, until he's satisfied with the way her aura seems a little less erratic, a little more present, a little less fluctuating. Usually, he just needs to step into the room to sense it, in itself a sign that she's abnormally open, completely vulnerable, shameless, needing, and unconscious. Now it has tightened around her, experimentally rubbing against his.
"Hey, Ted."
Suddenly he can see her, as she was during their seventh year, cocky and flirty and hot as hell. It's a dreamlike sensation; he's standing in an empty classroom at Hogwarts, but if he focuses he can feel his body, taut and kneeling on the bed.
Andromeda flings her legs off the side of the desk she was sitting on, and walks straight up to him. She's just as self-assured as ever, and when her head lolls to the side there's a hickey.
She looks at him in the eyes.
"You're going to fuck me, now." She stops barely one foot away from him, and Ted's body is humming.
"I've just come back from a Hogsmeade visit that was very frustrating, as the Dark Eunuch called Malfoy away before he even got properly started, the useless fuck." Now that Andromeda mentions it, it is obvious that she'd recently been involved in a session of heavy petting. Ted stands to attention.
She sucks wildly on her cigarette; the ember glows brightly, burning faster through the thin stick. Then she drops the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushes it under her boot without taking her eyes away from him.
It's not an exact replay of their seventh year, but there's no doubting the effect it has on Ted, suitably stiff, like a bird mesmerised by a cat. Or a snake. Or pretty much anything both elegant and deadly, really.
Slowly, she licks her lips. Ted waits for the other shoe to drop.
"Give me what I need," she orders.
And, in both realities, Ted does, riding her hard, spilling semen and magic until he's spent and falls down on her, and the dream Andromeda licks the come on her lips, smirking, and the real Andromeda's trembling fingers make their way to his hair, and Ted knows he will fall asleep.
Author:
runespoor7Prompt: 084 - He
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda, Ted (Andromeda/Ted)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2300
Summary: when Andromeda left the family, the Blacks did something a little more radical than damaging an old tapestry.
Warnings: extreme dub-con/non-con. Triggery.
"Please please please please," Andromeda begs, and Ted can't bring himself to look at her. He can barely stand to hear her voice. She only whispers now, needy, frantic breathes. Sometimes she can still cry out, and it's almost too painful.
He wants to shut off the shuddering thighs, one on each side of his head, and the mewls from her mouth. There isn't much time before her eyes start tearing up, she's too far gone and not arrived yet, and he doesn't want to see that. He has to give her what she wants, now.
Forget it's her, his mind suggests, and, selfishly, because it's easier when he doesn't remember what it's all about, he does; focusing on her core, level with his eyes, he brings his lips forward, once more, and licks and sucks and twists his tongue sharply against the hard nub that finally sends her thrashing. Her limbs are flailing wildly and he pulls away, up, away from the bed, unconsciously licking his lips, tasting her.
Aroused, he realises, by the smell and the sight of her, all that white skin – a bit grayish perhaps – and that slender figure – with sharper elbows and knees, and hips that stick out when she's laid down, like now, and that make him want to go down there on the mattress again, and to kiss them and suck them into his mouth, because they hurt easily.
She's banged her hip against the bedside table today; she'll bruise, and tomorrow she'll hurt, though she hasn't realised it.
He wants to kiss it better, but he doesn't, because she's out like a light, and she needs any rest she can get nowadays. Maybe she'll sleep until tomorrow, but Ted knows better than to make plans on it, as it's not even six yet, and hoping anything is really setting himself to be hurt.
For a moment, he stares at her. Her head is thrown back, her throat exposed, her entire body in disarray, like a broken doll abandoned on the floor. The surrounding shadow – the light from the corridor – casts harsh contrasts on her naked body, emphasising the spiky bones and the hollowed skin, and it's like watching the skeleton of an albatross. She looks almost as if she were dead, but her ribcage is rising at regular intervals, with hissing intakes of breath that seem to take more energy from her than it is worth, bones trying to break the skin from the inside.
He hates himself for staying there, as if he was expecting to see the last of her life leave her. At one time, he'd have whispered, "It's going to be alright". Ted has a lot of things to hate himself for these days, so he isn't sure if the most prominent is that he never kept true to his promise or because he stopped saying it.
In any case, it doesn't matter much, as Andromeda is in no shape to hear him. At least he hopes so.
She's not aware of much of anything actually, except for his mere presence.
Now he needs to make dinner for both of them – perhaps a light brew, something that he could get her to swallow and stomach, for once – and to start again on the dreamless sleep potions. Maybe tomorrow he'll have time to swing by the Croaker shop in Knockturn, risk his skin to leave a few vials and hopefully pick up a few more orders to bring an easily gone amount of money. Perhaps, he finds himself wishing, something less time consuming and mind-numbing than potions, though he can't see what could be. Curse-breaking and shield-weaving are what he used to love best, but demand more concentration than just keeping the contents of a cauldron from boiling.
As he's cutting the various ingredients, he finds himself musing that it's really incredibly odd, how life turns out. Star Ravenclaw, too many NEWTs to count, handsome employment proposals all over the place, as neutral on the political scale as could be hoped, given his Muggle ascendance and the roaring troubles – and there he is, surviving on off-the-radar, shady, bleak jobs. Tending to Andromeda Black's most primal needs as she lay dying.
It's not as if the two aren't linked, he reminds himself. And, should he want to leave, he doubts that she would be in a state to stop him. Technically, he has a choice there; technically, he can go out that door and never come back, and no-one will be the wiser about it. Except Andromeda's family, of course, but then again isn't this what they wanted?
He's all she has, though. He's all she is. And he supposes that's what keeps him from leaving her to die.
Addiction is such a strong word, he thinks as he puts the liquid to simmer. In Andromeda's case, it's also the only one there is. He can remember how it was before Andromeda decided to go all the way, to leave her family for him, and he really wishes he didn't, because to confront the memory of the girl that drew him in and the reality of the woman he's slowly killing, one kiss at a time, arouse feelings in him he's not comfortable with.
She made the decision all by herself, without any thought of the consequences, a typical Andromeda Black decision, and the wave of unadulterated hatred that sears through him is so violent he has to grasp the kitchen table, overcome with dizziness. God, he wants to kill the selfish bitch, to bring his hands around her neck and to snap it. Over. Or maybe he'd tighten his grip, clenching his teeth, the keening sounds that would escape from her mouth would turn him on, even now.
Maybe she'd struggle.
Maybe her hands would find his wrists and clasp around them, weakly trying to shake them off. Maybe her eyes would blink, repeatedly, widen, and finally focus through air-deprived tears, helpless, horrified, burning. Maybe her back would tense, maybe her legs would stretch, maybe she'd try to wriggle out of his grasp. Maybe he'd get to see her, really her, once more – to see her seeing him kill her.
Ted groans as his cock hardens.
He forces himself to disband the train of thought. He isn't like her. He can stop any time he wants. He will not get off on fantasising about strangling his – responsibility, he stoically shoulders the word.
A cursory glance at his watch tells him Andromeda has been asleep for almost an hour. He should fix the second part now, or all his previous efforts will have been wasted, and he'll have to extort another orgasm from her, and he doesn't want to think about the damage it will inevitably cause. He's done that mistake, two months ago; he'd been out at the shop, and he'd taken too long in coming back. He'd come back home to witness the ravages of withdrawal.
He doesn't know what had been the worse: that he'd been prepared to force himself on her weak body, to keep it from thrashing until the magic worked its way, or that he hadn't needed to, as his first touch opened her completely to him. Or the damage, afterwards. The blood he'd cleaned, the fractures he'd healed, the mess that was her magic. Ted might try to keep himself as uninvolved from politics as possible, he's read reports, he's visited friends in St Mungo's, and Andromeda looked like she'd been kept for a few weeks as a Death Eater plaything.
It doesn't make it any different that he's her torturer.
That's what he has been set up to be.
He finds Andromeda still asleep, thank God. He stays a few moments, just staring at her. She still looks like a Death Eater plaything, but then she always does, and Ted is well aware that his physical reaction to her is as unhealthy as they come. On the other hand, it has also been argued that his physical reaction to her was not healthy to be begin with, so maybe he shouldn't be that surprised. Or it's just another layer to the Blacks' plot, to bring him to see this, this twisted – whatever it is… as no more dysfunctional than any relationship between a pure-blood and a Muggle-born.
Sex and magic, he tells himself as he lowers on the bed. Always made her tick. She had a lot of strings, Andromeda – conflict, passion, and scandal – but they weren't the kind that could be snatched, that could have made her bow to a sneering Master who would have bought her with pretty words, a supple, willing slave. She'd been a slave to no-one but her own desires, and somehow the Blacks had known exactly how to play on that.
She mewls when his hands touch her breasts, and he immediately feels the nipples pricking up under the palms of his hands.
"Shh, baby," he whispers. "Shh."
Her pink tongue slips out of her mouth to lick her lips, quickly, and her legs twitch, thighs spreading apart as if, even in sleep, her body granted him easier access. A moan escapes feebly from her parted, bloodless lips. As usual, his vision blurs for a moment. He shifts on the bed until he's kneeling between her thighs, all-too-aware of the raging hard-on straining against his jeans, and hating himself for it. It's not that he's taking advantage of her, because he's not – not even mentioning that she needs this, in the same way that sane people need water, and air, and hope – but his body is enjoying it, too, when he knows very well that each time brings her a little closer to the edge.
And not just the line that people draw between sanity and madness, or between right and wrong, because clearly those have become a little blurred with the war.
Still, he opens his fly.
Clinically, the part of Ted's mind that takes Ravenclaw thirst for knowledge to an uncomfortable level wonders if she's ever going to die, even after she crosses that (supposedly) final edge, or if she's just going to cling on him some more, and that she will only die when she has sucked the entire life out of him. It would almost be a relief to find her dead, someday, except that Ted cannot imagine his life without this shell of a girl, which may mean that she's the one doing the killing, here.
As he stares vacantly ahead, pulling at the sickly, flickering aura that surrounds her, he regrets that he can't do something to stop it. There's a lot of things he can't do. Can't get money – his parents never had much in the way of wealth and now they're dead – can't get a job, can't get her to the hospital, can't get a counter curse. All consequences of the fact that his… arrangement… with Andromeda, providing her with what she needs to stay alive, is not exactly legal.
The Blacks knew what they were doing. And they probably did their homework, so the cure, if it exists at all, can only be discovered by those who have access to the family library.
He rubs all that he can of his magic against her, tweaking and adjusting and grounding, until he's satisfied with the way her aura seems a little less erratic, a little more present, a little less fluctuating. Usually, he just needs to step into the room to sense it, in itself a sign that she's abnormally open, completely vulnerable, shameless, needing, and unconscious. Now it has tightened around her, experimentally rubbing against his.
"Hey, Ted."
Suddenly he can see her, as she was during their seventh year, cocky and flirty and hot as hell. It's a dreamlike sensation; he's standing in an empty classroom at Hogwarts, but if he focuses he can feel his body, taut and kneeling on the bed.
Andromeda flings her legs off the side of the desk she was sitting on, and walks straight up to him. She's just as self-assured as ever, and when her head lolls to the side there's a hickey.
She looks at him in the eyes.
"You're going to fuck me, now." She stops barely one foot away from him, and Ted's body is humming.
"I've just come back from a Hogsmeade visit that was very frustrating, as the Dark Eunuch called Malfoy away before he even got properly started, the useless fuck." Now that Andromeda mentions it, it is obvious that she'd recently been involved in a session of heavy petting. Ted stands to attention.
She sucks wildly on her cigarette; the ember glows brightly, burning faster through the thin stick. Then she drops the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushes it under her boot without taking her eyes away from him.
It's not an exact replay of their seventh year, but there's no doubting the effect it has on Ted, suitably stiff, like a bird mesmerised by a cat. Or a snake. Or pretty much anything both elegant and deadly, really.
Slowly, she licks her lips. Ted waits for the other shoe to drop.
"Give me what I need," she orders.
And, in both realities, Ted does, riding her hard, spilling semen and magic until he's spent and falls down on her, and the dream Andromeda licks the come on her lips, smirking, and the real Andromeda's trembling fingers make their way to his hair, and Ted knows he will fall asleep.
