|||||Educated guess - Ani Difranco||]|
Title: Sense of Harm
Rating: hard R I suppose
Pairing: Moody/Crouch Jr.
Warnings: non con
Summary: No one is unbreakable. Not even Alastor Moody
He sat in a corner of the cold, metal trunk, gazing into blackness, nothingness. He’d been alright for the first couple weeks, but by now, his mind was giving way; a slow, dulling Cruciatus, one that didn’t hurt quite enough. His senses felt dead. There was nothing to tell him that he was there. He couldn’t move, couldn’t touch himself in any way to let himself know that he wasn’t just a floating, unused consciousness: the imperius curse still held. If he still had his strength, he might’ve been able to break it now that it’d been held over such a long period of time, but there was no chance now. No, now he was far too weak, malnourished, worn with the occasional times that Crouch had come down to toy with him. So this is what he had been reduced to: a weak old man, once feared by dark wizards and now trapped in his own trunk. “Stop it, boyo.” He’d gone over this a million times. Sure, he’d retired, but he was still capable as he ever was. Or so he had thought. This situation was beginning to tell him things about himself that he didn’t want to hear. He swore something was whispering, digging into all those sore places, exploiting the deterioration of his capability, his confidence, his power. All of that was gone, or going. He was in the complete control of Crouch, subject to his will; a mouse dangling on the end of a string for a cat to play with. Suddenly, he began to wonder if that whispering was actually real. He could almost feel breath next to his ear…
Speak, It said.
“Crouch.” He growled.
Are you sure? Sure that it’s not all in your head? You’ve wanted to sense something for so long that you might just be imagining things…
Moody wasn’t sure. He might just be imagining things.
The inexorable urge to stand rose in him, and he tried to stand, but his prosthetic leg was gone and he fell. The whisper laughed cruelly. WHY on EARTH had he tried to stand? He knew he didn’t have that leg. He knew he couldn’t stand. Why had he tried? Then he remembered: of course, the imperius. But, was the whisperer Crouch or his own paranoid consciousness? How could he have gotten down here without him seeing? Was he finally losing grip? He didn’t know. A dim outline of Crouch then appeared in front of his fallen frame on the floor. You’re going crazy, old man. Mad-eye Moody has actually gone mad. How badly do you want to sense something, Mad-Eye? He used the nickname mockingly. How badly to you wish to feel something? Tell me.
He didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to give him the pleasure of acknowledging it. But he couldn’t help himself. “Badly! Merlin, just let me feel something!”
What will you do for it?
“Arghh!” He tried to fight it. “Anything! Anything!”
Crouch chuckled. So this is the famous ex-Auror...reduced to a whore for Death Eaters to toy with.
So that was why he’d come down this time. Crouch made him kneel, which was difficult for him because of his leg. Do it. He unwillingly undid Crouch’s trousers and pulled them down. Crouch was apparently getting off on the power-play. Do it. He commanded again. Alastor took him in his mouth and sucked him off, obeying every detailed command Crouch gave him. Alastor grudgingly swallowed the seed as he came, wrenching himself away from looking at what he had just done, feeling like he was about to vomit. Crouch smirked. You’ve done that before, haven’t you?
Alastor didn’t answer. He stayed hunched over on the ground. Suddenly, he was flipped over on his back, a restraining spell holding his arms and legs. Now for my part of the deal. A blaze of red shot out of his wand and hit Alastor in the groin. His body jerked, but it didn’t hurt him. He felt it burn for a moment, then he felt millions of tiny sensations between his legs. Slight clawing and biting and scratching, but not hard enough that it hurt; just gently enough that it he was hard after just a few moments. He felt his arousal and immediately had an idea of what kind of “repayment” this would be. Oh gods, no, not this. He could deal with pain; he had a high pain threshold. But this he had few defenses against, especially in his current state of mind. This would be torture of the consciousness, of corrupt caresses, not of lacerations and physical injury.
Don’t react, not in any way, until I tell you to.
The tingling continued to ripple around, sending waves of sensations up and down his spine. His urges to arch his back, grimace, anything, were building up, but he couldn’t do anything to relieve them. He’d go madder than he already was if he didn’t release it. Crouch slithered over to whisper in his ear, in his head. Ooooh, you want to moan like a whore, don’t you? All the tingling up and down, up and down, incessantly with no relief…
Alastor couldn’t stand it anymore. He knew he’d be so distracted, so overcome by sexual pleasure and frustration that he’d do anything Crouch told him in a flash. He wouldn’t be able to fight. The sensations were spreading to his thighs, up to his navel. Then Crouch whispered, Moan.
Fuck, he thought. And moan he did. Almost quietly at first, but then they began getting louder and shorter, but he wasn’t to his peak yet. Crouch started mocking him. Uhhh, uuuhn, mmmm, it’s so good…it’s almost too much, isn’t it? Ughhhh, funny, huh? Torture that doesn’t hurt enough? C’mon, show me how good it is.”
Alastor would’ve hated to admit it, but Crouch’s whispering was getting him hotter. He hated that. Crouch was right next to him, watching his finally released and very intense facial reactions. Crouch seemed to be able to tell that his words were affecting him: he took out a knife and ever so slightly, teasingly slid the tip of the blade across Alastor’s chest. Clutching his shirt, he sliced it down the middle, cutting a bit of Moody’s skin as he did so. He began exploring Alastor’s upper body with his hands. Alastor was shocked by their warmth, and realized how cold the rest of his body was. By now the tingling, biting, gnawing sensations that were too gentle to be borne had reached his chest. Crouch exploited his victim’s new sensitivity and traced his nipples, his navel, his neck. Alastor’s moaning grew louder than he ever would’ve dared.
How much do you hate this, Mad-Eye? Getting off on your enemy’s power over you? Do you want it to stop? I can tell you do. Beg, Moody, beg for it.
Moody roared in his useless fight to stop himself. Crouch was using what he knew Moody would never do. Between his moaning, he began to scream, “Please! Make it stop! No! Please! No more! No-” Alastor couldn’t believe what was flying out of his mouth. His mind felt strangely distant, as if he was outside of himself, watching. He would suppose later that this was a sign that his mind was using instinctual defenses against this torture, this rape of his dignity, as everything else had failed. Pain at least would have given him something to brag about surviving. This…this was something that would haunt dreams of shame. Crouch stared down at him, wide-eyed with a hungry, mesmerized grin. Stop? Is that what you wish me to do?
“Yes, you fucker! Yes! Arghhh!” Alastor screamed.
Very well then.
Everything stopped and Crouch was gone. His breathing was still fast and shallow. The imperious curse was gone, but the restraining curse remained. In truth, Alastor wanted to orgasm rather than be unable to release his sexual tension, and Crouch made sure that he wouldn’t be able to. He wanted to scream. He wondered if the frustration would destroy his last thread of sanity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Moody/Crouch brought Potter up to his office. That boy probably hadn’t even given much constructive thought to how he was going to defeat that dragon. “Stupid kid.” He thought to himself. He managed to set his prosthetic leg on its stand and then turned to Potter, about to ask him, when a scream of incredible intensity burst out of his trunk. “I won’t bother to tell you what’s in there. You wouldn’t believe me if I did…”