FIC: Ice Maiden, Ginny/Tonks, R
As promised, my make-up fic for ginnysdarkside. The request was for angst with a light side of fluff, and I hope this will suffice.
Love & Serpents' Kisses,
Anath.
Title: Ice Maiden
Author: Anath de Malfoy
Pairing: Tonks/Ginny
Summary: After Ginny is rescued from being a Death Eater captive, Tonks tries to heal her with love
Rating: R
Warnings: Femmeslash, angst, hurt/comfort, implied past torture (nothing graphic)
Possible Spoilers: Books 1-5
Word Count: 881
Disclaimer: All characters and profits belong to J.K Rowling. The femmeslash herein is my own creation.
“She’s got her eyes open wide
She’s got the dirt and spit of the world
She’s got her mouth on the metal
The lips of a scared little girl…”
- from “Count to Six and Die” by Marilyn Manson
- Tonks’ POV-
Sometimes she is a little like her old self, like the beautiful child she was when we first met, the delightfully candid, playful girl that she had been long before we became lovers. Laughing as I transform my face into varied shapes, my hair into rainbow shades, in order to amuse her. Rolling her eyes at my patented clumsiness, trying not to let me see that she knows I am exaggerating it for her sweet sake. Her face softens with the simple joy of life, of our passion and tenderness. On these days our kisses are warm and lit by the sun as it dawns each morning. Her hands steal beneath my nightgown the moment she awakens, teasing my drowsy body from its slumber and making my skin tingle with the beginnings of arousal, of desire that she and she alone engenders in me.
At other times, she is moody and listless, withdrawn and craving solitude. Her vacant eyes stare blankly out the window, her hands clenching and unclenching rapidly and mindlessly, as if she were trying to shut out the baleful memories of what she has endured. It is futile even to attempt to speak to her when she is like this. A terse “Leave me alone”, or worse, a wounded look flitting across her stricken face would be her sole response.
I cannot bear to consign her to St Mungo’s, and I doubt that she would forgive me if I did so. And although it goes against wizarding law, and as an Auror I should know better than to do so, I have even been desperate enough to mention several times to her the possibility of consulting one of those Muggle doctors who treat disturbances of the mind. Perhaps there might be a way to assuage her pain without revealing any details of our magical world… but each time she merely looked at me as if I were the one who had taken leave of my senses.
“What good would that do?” she snarled with sudden rage the last time I dared to broach the subject to her. “There’s no way that I’d be able to hide everything - I’d end up telling that Muggle quack every last bit of it. About the Death Eaters. About being a witch. And that’s something that I’d never do, even if it wasn’t against our laws…”
All that is left for me to do is to keep her by my side, attend to her every whim, and pray to whatever good angels may be watching that some day her demons will be dispelled. It is harder than anything I have ever endured in my life before, to see her like this, only able to offer her my love as healing balm.
It is torment, pure torment to see the pain in her that she cannot or will not express in words. To feel her tremble in my arms as she clings to me, wakeful after nightmares, her face wet with tears as she nestles against my breasts, tears that sting more bitterly than blood or Cruciatus. “My brave Auror, my saviour,” she calls me as she bends to seek what little succour I can offer in this bleakest moment of her need. Pressing her feverish lips against the hard peaks of my nipples, taking them in turn into her aching, wanting baby-mouth. Her fingernails like small claws press into my helpless flesh, staking claim in stark dementia until small spots of blood, visible by first light, spatter the sheets. When she makes love to me her fingers probe too deeply, thrust too violently, seeking to possess and challenge. Daring me to push her away, to scream for mercy, to flee from her maddened eyes, her brutal hands, her scalding tongue that pushes and slithers into my mouth, choking off my words of reassurance. Or is she trying to return to the womb with all of this, reaching for some kind of eternal mother that will never abandon her? Merlin only knows I would never forsake my beloved, but perhaps a lover’s devotion will not suffice to draw her away from the abyss she seems to be on the brink of.
I will never turn away from her, never give up in my struggle to bring her some shred of happiness. Even on those days where she seems colder than the bitter snow of winter, when her eyes are tearless icicles and her smile is false and frozen. Always the hardest, these days, when nothing seems to work but a warm woollen blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders and an old doll nursed like a precious newborn in her arms. Trying not to shudder or cry, trying to blot the nightmare images of how her captors must have violated her body and mind from my thoughts, I ply her with simple treats like I would a little girl half her age. Rich strawberry ice-cream, melting in a pure white bone-china bowl, around the metal curlicues of a faux silver spoon, becoming icy liquid on the surface of her cold little tongue.
Infantile rituals that seem to work a magic of their own; each time the bliss of sugary concoctions overwhelms her, a tiny smile hovers faintly about her countenance, and I begin to hope.
~ Fin.
Love & Serpents' Kisses,
Anath.
Title: Ice Maiden
Author: Anath de Malfoy
Pairing: Tonks/Ginny
Summary: After Ginny is rescued from being a Death Eater captive, Tonks tries to heal her with love
Rating: R
Warnings: Femmeslash, angst, hurt/comfort, implied past torture (nothing graphic)
Possible Spoilers: Books 1-5
Word Count: 881
Disclaimer: All characters and profits belong to J.K Rowling. The femmeslash herein is my own creation.
“She’s got her eyes open wide
She’s got the dirt and spit of the world
She’s got her mouth on the metal
The lips of a scared little girl…”
- from “Count to Six and Die” by Marilyn Manson
- Tonks’ POV-
Sometimes she is a little like her old self, like the beautiful child she was when we first met, the delightfully candid, playful girl that she had been long before we became lovers. Laughing as I transform my face into varied shapes, my hair into rainbow shades, in order to amuse her. Rolling her eyes at my patented clumsiness, trying not to let me see that she knows I am exaggerating it for her sweet sake. Her face softens with the simple joy of life, of our passion and tenderness. On these days our kisses are warm and lit by the sun as it dawns each morning. Her hands steal beneath my nightgown the moment she awakens, teasing my drowsy body from its slumber and making my skin tingle with the beginnings of arousal, of desire that she and she alone engenders in me.
At other times, she is moody and listless, withdrawn and craving solitude. Her vacant eyes stare blankly out the window, her hands clenching and unclenching rapidly and mindlessly, as if she were trying to shut out the baleful memories of what she has endured. It is futile even to attempt to speak to her when she is like this. A terse “Leave me alone”, or worse, a wounded look flitting across her stricken face would be her sole response.
I cannot bear to consign her to St Mungo’s, and I doubt that she would forgive me if I did so. And although it goes against wizarding law, and as an Auror I should know better than to do so, I have even been desperate enough to mention several times to her the possibility of consulting one of those Muggle doctors who treat disturbances of the mind. Perhaps there might be a way to assuage her pain without revealing any details of our magical world… but each time she merely looked at me as if I were the one who had taken leave of my senses.
“What good would that do?” she snarled with sudden rage the last time I dared to broach the subject to her. “There’s no way that I’d be able to hide everything - I’d end up telling that Muggle quack every last bit of it. About the Death Eaters. About being a witch. And that’s something that I’d never do, even if it wasn’t against our laws…”
All that is left for me to do is to keep her by my side, attend to her every whim, and pray to whatever good angels may be watching that some day her demons will be dispelled. It is harder than anything I have ever endured in my life before, to see her like this, only able to offer her my love as healing balm.
It is torment, pure torment to see the pain in her that she cannot or will not express in words. To feel her tremble in my arms as she clings to me, wakeful after nightmares, her face wet with tears as she nestles against my breasts, tears that sting more bitterly than blood or Cruciatus. “My brave Auror, my saviour,” she calls me as she bends to seek what little succour I can offer in this bleakest moment of her need. Pressing her feverish lips against the hard peaks of my nipples, taking them in turn into her aching, wanting baby-mouth. Her fingernails like small claws press into my helpless flesh, staking claim in stark dementia until small spots of blood, visible by first light, spatter the sheets. When she makes love to me her fingers probe too deeply, thrust too violently, seeking to possess and challenge. Daring me to push her away, to scream for mercy, to flee from her maddened eyes, her brutal hands, her scalding tongue that pushes and slithers into my mouth, choking off my words of reassurance. Or is she trying to return to the womb with all of this, reaching for some kind of eternal mother that will never abandon her? Merlin only knows I would never forsake my beloved, but perhaps a lover’s devotion will not suffice to draw her away from the abyss she seems to be on the brink of.
I will never turn away from her, never give up in my struggle to bring her some shred of happiness. Even on those days where she seems colder than the bitter snow of winter, when her eyes are tearless icicles and her smile is false and frozen. Always the hardest, these days, when nothing seems to work but a warm woollen blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders and an old doll nursed like a precious newborn in her arms. Trying not to shudder or cry, trying to blot the nightmare images of how her captors must have violated her body and mind from my thoughts, I ply her with simple treats like I would a little girl half her age. Rich strawberry ice-cream, melting in a pure white bone-china bowl, around the metal curlicues of a faux silver spoon, becoming icy liquid on the surface of her cold little tongue.
Infantile rituals that seem to work a magic of their own; each time the bliss of sugary concoctions overwhelms her, a tiny smile hovers faintly about her countenance, and I begin to hope.
~ Fin.