Endurance for SoftObsidian74
Title: Endurance
Author: khasael
Recipient: SoftObsidian74
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Word Count: 2,070
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, oral sex
Summary: When Hermione is captured by Death Eaters, she ends up as Draco Malfoy's personal toy. As he alternates his pleasure between the desires of the flesh and the desires of the mind, she struggles to not lose her hope or her sanity.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
She knows it’s him coming for her simply by the sound of his footfalls. They’re leisurely and confident, and she wonders if the sound has been amplified by magic, or if it is simply the echo of his shoes on the cold marble, sound bouncing off the walls and high ceiling. She would not put intentional manipulation past him. The sound fills her with dread, and if he even knows she can hear him, she is sure that is what he wants. It is no fun for him if she isn’t afraid.
He turns the corner and she watches his face change as he catches sight of her naked body. The casual look is replaced by one of anticipation, of cruel amusement as he watches her, curled up against herself in the corner. Today he is dressed in crisp black trousers and a blue dress shirt that someone has probably told him brings out his eyes, instead of his usual dark robe. His hair is loose, which it rarely is, and she wonders if he has been out. He stops not five feet from her. “Get up.”
In the past, she has pleaded with him, ‘please’ and ‘why’ and ‘but’ tumbling from her mouth, but now she knows those words do no good. They only serve to make him smirk in amusement, and somehow, that expression is worse than the hard-eyed glint he gets on the occasions she decides to resist.
“The chain is too short,” she tells him instead, bringing her wrist out where he can see it. It is a mass of purple and red and blue, and she has had the time to discern that there are fourteen different colours there. She strained it the first time trying to get into a position where she could sleep. The second time, she had to contort herself to reach the food set out for her. The third time, to relieve herself. She had worried she might dislocate it at that point, and then tried to judge if dislocating the joint might get her out of the cuffs. It wouldn’t work; they’re too tight, a safeguard against that possibility, and she would probably have to break a bone or two in her hand to manage that feat.
He trails his eyes over her arm, then holds her gaze. “You know what happens if you try to escape.”
She does. At least, she has a reasonable guess, because the last time she had tried it, she had ended up unconscious for something that might have been half a day, but also might have been a day and a half. She simply nods. She was always taught to pick her battles, to know when all chances of winning were at zero. When she was young, that meant trying to argue logic with teachers, or insisting that she did not know how an object had been broken when she was across the room when her magic got away from her. It had meant knowing that the bullies who teased about bushy hair and buck teeth were themselves insecure, but also knowing that they would not appreciate her enlightening them on the finer points of their psyches. Now it means that she will not fight back unless she thinks she can gain something from it.
He still watches her intently as he spells the chain longer, and she sees the moment the links are made weaker before they solidify again. It is not enough time to try something. If she had her wand, perhaps. But that has been destroyed, something he took great pleasure in doing before her as she cried silent tears of loss. She used to be fairly skilled at wandless magic, but she no longer has the energy for that. He uses that up, the same way he uses everything around him. He is like a fire, consuming and leaving nothing but empty shells that still smell of destruction.
When the chain is long enough to allow her to move, she scrambles to her feet. She is sore and stiff from her time on the floor, and not quick enough for his liking. He hauls her up by her free arm, her secured wrist tugging at the handcuff holding her. She shrieks, because the area is more painful than she has realised. He only scoffs at her. “I said, get up. You’re filthy.”
She has heard it before, and long ago, she told him that perhaps she wouldn’t be if he allowed her a bath or some fresh clothes, or somewhere to sleep other than a floor in what used to be a conservatory. He had shoved her back to the floor and spat on her. A Mudblood like you deserves no better, he had said, walking away.
“I’m sorry,” she says, hating herself for playing his games. She isn’t sorry for what she is. She can feel herself break a little more each day, but this part of her still remains. She is a witch, and a good one. He will never see her as such. That chance was gone the day Harry died.
“You should be punished.”
It is what he has come for, and if she had not been covered in grime, he would have found something else to punish her for. The bruising on her wrist, or a look she has given him. “Of course.” Another little part of her cracks and falls off, some bit of her that is willpower and respect and dignity. She has so little of the latter left. He has worked hard to make it so.
He shoves her back down to the ground and she lands on her knees. She quickly realises what he has in store for her, and wills herself not to cry in front of him. He has fucked her until she hasn’t been able to stand, bent her over the old white marble bench and fucked her arse until she bled, and still this is the bit she hates most. And he knows it.
She watches him undo his belt, and even before he undoes the button and zip of his trousers, she can see how hard he is. It is hard to miss at eyelevel. His erection bobs in front of her as his trousers and pants slide to settle around his shoes. He is vulnerable here, and she thinks that if she ever gets a chance to escape, it will be at a time like this. But today is not that day. She simply does not have the energy, and her movements will be clumsy. She needs to be at her best if she is to ever get out of here.
He doesn’t even say anything to her. He only buries his fingers in her hair and drags her close, thrusting past her lips with a harsh sigh. She struggles to pull back, but his grip is too strong and she gags. “Fight, and I promise I’ll make this far worse,” he says at last through gritted teeth. She knows it is more than a promise. Any excuse will do. And so she resists the urge and minds her teeth, tries to open her throat. If she is lucky, this will go quickly and he will leave her be.
He thrusts in and out, moving her head for her, and all she can do is rock on her knees, remember to breathe through her nose, and try to keep back the tears. The taste and smell of him, musky and slightly salty, fills her head. This isn’t right. He violates her just because he can, because he enjoys watching her break, and it shouldn’t be this way for anyone. She had someone who loved her, someone she loved back, but now her days consist of wondering how much longer this can go on before it gets worse. Sometimes, she thinks all of this is more about breaking her than it is about his enjoyment. He is simply killing two birds with one stone.
The fingers threaded through her hair tighten and she cries out around his cock, and a few short moments later, it is pulsing bitter come down her throat, and she has no choice but to swallow. He shoves her backwards and she lands awkwardly on her arse. His pale face is flushed, but he calmly takes a handful of her hair and wipes his cock with it. “Filthy,” he says again, his voice full of contempt.
It’s not the worst thing he has ever said to her, not the cruellest by half, but it still brings tears to her eyes. She can smell his come in her hair, feel it mixed with her saliva on her chin, but she doesn’t dare wipe it away with him looking. He had slapped her the last time she had done that, and now she waits until he turns away to do up his trousers. He walks away and she releases a shuddering sigh. He is done for now. Once he had taken a potion and fucked her all three ways until he was satisfied, and she never knows if it will happen again. She has never wished for death, but that day, she came close.
He returns again moments later, this time holding a length of rope between his hands and she winces against her will. He sees it and smirks. She does struggle this time, because this is new and whatever it means, it cannot be good. He only laughs at her attempts and strikes her with an open hand. It stops the struggling, and she only looks at him flatly, feeling the blood rush to her cheek. She had once thought that he couldn’t be as cruel as he seemed, and now she knows she was right, but for the wrong reasons. He is so much worse.
“I think we’ve been too nice to you, letting you sit in this room, soaking up sunlight,” he breathes in her face, and she can smell the liquor there, just a slight tang of wine enjoyed while he was gone. Only the finer things for him. And his dirty little prisoner. No wonder he is so upset.
The chain around her wrist vanishes, but his grip on her does not, and he ties the ropes around the injured wrist first. She cries out, and he only ties the bond tighter. She knows it is useless to resist, but she still cannot help trying to tug her other arm away. It is the hand that should be holding her wand, and it itches to be used. Instead, it is tied behind her back with the other, useless.
He drags her through the corridor, yanking her up when she stumbles, and before she has a chance to workout the floor plan of where they are now, he is throwing her into a dark room only slightly larger than a cupboard. She has another brief flash of grief, thinking about Harry, who had once told her about his time with his aunt and uncle. He was part of her other life. Now there is only Draco Malfoy, pain and humiliation.
“This fits you better, I think,” he says as he stands in the doorway. “Pets don’t need large cages. At least, not one like you.”
And with that, he is gone, leaving her to curl up in a corner, unable to even brush away the small thing, likely a spider, that crawls across her leg in the dark. She can hear his footfalls fade away from here, and knows that the only thing that has changed is that she will now be listening for that sound from a new direction, for however long she manages to maintain her sanity.
Some days, she thinks that might not be long.
Author: khasael
Recipient: SoftObsidian74
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Word Count: 2,070
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, oral sex
Summary: When Hermione is captured by Death Eaters, she ends up as Draco Malfoy's personal toy. As he alternates his pleasure between the desires of the flesh and the desires of the mind, she struggles to not lose her hope or her sanity.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
She knows it’s him coming for her simply by the sound of his footfalls. They’re leisurely and confident, and she wonders if the sound has been amplified by magic, or if it is simply the echo of his shoes on the cold marble, sound bouncing off the walls and high ceiling. She would not put intentional manipulation past him. The sound fills her with dread, and if he even knows she can hear him, she is sure that is what he wants. It is no fun for him if she isn’t afraid.
He turns the corner and she watches his face change as he catches sight of her naked body. The casual look is replaced by one of anticipation, of cruel amusement as he watches her, curled up against herself in the corner. Today he is dressed in crisp black trousers and a blue dress shirt that someone has probably told him brings out his eyes, instead of his usual dark robe. His hair is loose, which it rarely is, and she wonders if he has been out. He stops not five feet from her. “Get up.”
In the past, she has pleaded with him, ‘please’ and ‘why’ and ‘but’ tumbling from her mouth, but now she knows those words do no good. They only serve to make him smirk in amusement, and somehow, that expression is worse than the hard-eyed glint he gets on the occasions she decides to resist.
“The chain is too short,” she tells him instead, bringing her wrist out where he can see it. It is a mass of purple and red and blue, and she has had the time to discern that there are fourteen different colours there. She strained it the first time trying to get into a position where she could sleep. The second time, she had to contort herself to reach the food set out for her. The third time, to relieve herself. She had worried she might dislocate it at that point, and then tried to judge if dislocating the joint might get her out of the cuffs. It wouldn’t work; they’re too tight, a safeguard against that possibility, and she would probably have to break a bone or two in her hand to manage that feat.
He trails his eyes over her arm, then holds her gaze. “You know what happens if you try to escape.”
She does. At least, she has a reasonable guess, because the last time she had tried it, she had ended up unconscious for something that might have been half a day, but also might have been a day and a half. She simply nods. She was always taught to pick her battles, to know when all chances of winning were at zero. When she was young, that meant trying to argue logic with teachers, or insisting that she did not know how an object had been broken when she was across the room when her magic got away from her. It had meant knowing that the bullies who teased about bushy hair and buck teeth were themselves insecure, but also knowing that they would not appreciate her enlightening them on the finer points of their psyches. Now it means that she will not fight back unless she thinks she can gain something from it.
He still watches her intently as he spells the chain longer, and she sees the moment the links are made weaker before they solidify again. It is not enough time to try something. If she had her wand, perhaps. But that has been destroyed, something he took great pleasure in doing before her as she cried silent tears of loss. She used to be fairly skilled at wandless magic, but she no longer has the energy for that. He uses that up, the same way he uses everything around him. He is like a fire, consuming and leaving nothing but empty shells that still smell of destruction.
When the chain is long enough to allow her to move, she scrambles to her feet. She is sore and stiff from her time on the floor, and not quick enough for his liking. He hauls her up by her free arm, her secured wrist tugging at the handcuff holding her. She shrieks, because the area is more painful than she has realised. He only scoffs at her. “I said, get up. You’re filthy.”
She has heard it before, and long ago, she told him that perhaps she wouldn’t be if he allowed her a bath or some fresh clothes, or somewhere to sleep other than a floor in what used to be a conservatory. He had shoved her back to the floor and spat on her. A Mudblood like you deserves no better, he had said, walking away.
“I’m sorry,” she says, hating herself for playing his games. She isn’t sorry for what she is. She can feel herself break a little more each day, but this part of her still remains. She is a witch, and a good one. He will never see her as such. That chance was gone the day Harry died.
“You should be punished.”
It is what he has come for, and if she had not been covered in grime, he would have found something else to punish her for. The bruising on her wrist, or a look she has given him. “Of course.” Another little part of her cracks and falls off, some bit of her that is willpower and respect and dignity. She has so little of the latter left. He has worked hard to make it so.
He shoves her back down to the ground and she lands on her knees. She quickly realises what he has in store for her, and wills herself not to cry in front of him. He has fucked her until she hasn’t been able to stand, bent her over the old white marble bench and fucked her arse until she bled, and still this is the bit she hates most. And he knows it.
She watches him undo his belt, and even before he undoes the button and zip of his trousers, she can see how hard he is. It is hard to miss at eyelevel. His erection bobs in front of her as his trousers and pants slide to settle around his shoes. He is vulnerable here, and she thinks that if she ever gets a chance to escape, it will be at a time like this. But today is not that day. She simply does not have the energy, and her movements will be clumsy. She needs to be at her best if she is to ever get out of here.
He doesn’t even say anything to her. He only buries his fingers in her hair and drags her close, thrusting past her lips with a harsh sigh. She struggles to pull back, but his grip is too strong and she gags. “Fight, and I promise I’ll make this far worse,” he says at last through gritted teeth. She knows it is more than a promise. Any excuse will do. And so she resists the urge and minds her teeth, tries to open her throat. If she is lucky, this will go quickly and he will leave her be.
He thrusts in and out, moving her head for her, and all she can do is rock on her knees, remember to breathe through her nose, and try to keep back the tears. The taste and smell of him, musky and slightly salty, fills her head. This isn’t right. He violates her just because he can, because he enjoys watching her break, and it shouldn’t be this way for anyone. She had someone who loved her, someone she loved back, but now her days consist of wondering how much longer this can go on before it gets worse. Sometimes, she thinks all of this is more about breaking her than it is about his enjoyment. He is simply killing two birds with one stone.
The fingers threaded through her hair tighten and she cries out around his cock, and a few short moments later, it is pulsing bitter come down her throat, and she has no choice but to swallow. He shoves her backwards and she lands awkwardly on her arse. His pale face is flushed, but he calmly takes a handful of her hair and wipes his cock with it. “Filthy,” he says again, his voice full of contempt.
It’s not the worst thing he has ever said to her, not the cruellest by half, but it still brings tears to her eyes. She can smell his come in her hair, feel it mixed with her saliva on her chin, but she doesn’t dare wipe it away with him looking. He had slapped her the last time she had done that, and now she waits until he turns away to do up his trousers. He walks away and she releases a shuddering sigh. He is done for now. Once he had taken a potion and fucked her all three ways until he was satisfied, and she never knows if it will happen again. She has never wished for death, but that day, she came close.
He returns again moments later, this time holding a length of rope between his hands and she winces against her will. He sees it and smirks. She does struggle this time, because this is new and whatever it means, it cannot be good. He only laughs at her attempts and strikes her with an open hand. It stops the struggling, and she only looks at him flatly, feeling the blood rush to her cheek. She had once thought that he couldn’t be as cruel as he seemed, and now she knows she was right, but for the wrong reasons. He is so much worse.
“I think we’ve been too nice to you, letting you sit in this room, soaking up sunlight,” he breathes in her face, and she can smell the liquor there, just a slight tang of wine enjoyed while he was gone. Only the finer things for him. And his dirty little prisoner. No wonder he is so upset.
The chain around her wrist vanishes, but his grip on her does not, and he ties the ropes around the injured wrist first. She cries out, and he only ties the bond tighter. She knows it is useless to resist, but she still cannot help trying to tug her other arm away. It is the hand that should be holding her wand, and it itches to be used. Instead, it is tied behind her back with the other, useless.
He drags her through the corridor, yanking her up when she stumbles, and before she has a chance to workout the floor plan of where they are now, he is throwing her into a dark room only slightly larger than a cupboard. She has another brief flash of grief, thinking about Harry, who had once told her about his time with his aunt and uncle. He was part of her other life. Now there is only Draco Malfoy, pain and humiliation.
“This fits you better, I think,” he says as he stands in the doorway. “Pets don’t need large cages. At least, not one like you.”
And with that, he is gone, leaving her to curl up in a corner, unable to even brush away the small thing, likely a spider, that crawls across her leg in the dark. She can hear his footfalls fade away from here, and knows that the only thing that has changed is that she will now be listening for that sound from a new direction, for however long she manages to maintain her sanity.
Some days, she thinks that might not be long.