Hermione/Lucius (dark themes)
Lucius circled her, humming contemplatively as he examined the skin he’d left unmarred.
She wondered if he’d heal her before sending her back to the second floor bedroom, the wallpapered walls as impenetrable as the iron bars they could have been, or if he’d leave her dripping, the blood slowly cooling on her skin until it was tacky and dark, the reminder of him lingering until she had the strength to stumble to the porcelain tub and scrub it away, making herself new for him.
But when he drew up in front of her, eyes still hungry, it seemed he wasn’t yet finished with her.
He used the tip of his wand to press gently at the inside of her knee, encouraging her legs apart with a laziness that suggested force would be entirely unnecessary. She hated how right he was, her legs falling open without hesitation.
Sometimes Hermione wished she weren’t so clever; wished she wasn’t so well read in both Magical Law and Muggle Psychology, because knowing that Lucius’s treatment was Ministry approved and that the result of it was studied enough to have its own proper noun, didn’t do her a lick of good. But whether she knew the literature or not, the result was the same: Lucius was holding her captive, and she wanted to please Lucius.
She wanted to please him so that he wouldn’t hurt her, partly, but mostly because the way he hurt her was a luxury. It gave her a confusing sense of pleasure to watch her veins open themselves to him, her blood hot and bright, beautiful to him despite its less-than-Pure status.
It felt like a secret. An intimacy.
Only she knew what he did to her in those quiet moments when he summoned her to his private study, the portraits spelled black and the docile, complicit wife tucked away in her own sort of prison; the son ensconced in the dark robes of his own.
Lucius never touched her, not with his body, but she felt his sick desires in the curl of his magic, the way it stroked along her softly, exploratorily, before hardening, turning razor sharp and precise.
There was a control to his violence. She both wanted to see him break it and was simultaneously certain that he would kill her if he did.
But men who cut little girls for fun weren’t the sort to be provoked and so she let the hunger for risk swell under her skin, turning her thoughts fuzzy as he watched her skin weep for him.
He spoke to her sometimes, soft musings about the pretty way the carmine stripes followed her curves, or gentle shushes when a flash of pain dragged a reflexive whimper from her lips.
She lost track of how long she’d been held captive at Malfoy Manor, the days blurring together and further jumbled by the floaty headspace his cuts released her into, the pain and the gradual blood loss working in concert to slide her mind away to a place where time didn't exist.
And so as she sat there, bound to the straight-backed chair in Lucius’s study while he drew pictures on her thighs, and felt a sudden, unmistakable wetness between her legs, it was with a secondhand sort of curiosity that she wondered if he’d nicked her femoral artery and if she really was about to slip fully away.
But then he made a noise he never had before, something chest-deep and yearning, and her consciousness perked up.
“Oh,” he murmured.
His wand was insistent on her inner thigh then, demanding she spread her legs. She did, as easily as always, and he slid the tip of his wand up until it caught the hem of the utilitarian garment she wore.
She thought she’d lost all sense of modesty but when she felt the cool air of the room brushing right against the white cotton of her knickers, she realized she had a little shame left.
Her thighs twitched, and then clamped together.
He tsked, shoving a thigh between her knees and then wrenching them open with his gloved hands. It was the most physical contact she’d had in ages – and the first from him – and the heavy weight of his hands made her gasp. It had been at least a month then, since her capture.
He dug his thumbs into the muscle and she stopped resisting, letting him spread her wide.
He made that sound again, low and resonant, and it felt as good as a thousand cuts.
“Oh, look at you. Bleeding for me all on your own.”
His hands twitched and then he was dropping to his knees between her thighs, hands sliding up until her garment was pushed over her hips, putting her blood-soaked knickers on display. He looked for a long moment, so long that she felt a latent bolt of humiliation.
His eyes were dark and intent when he raised them to hers. She’d never seen him so closely before and the proximity was making her heart pound. He’d had her on the chair for long enough that she felt a little shaky and so it was a miracle she had enough blood left to pulse, let alone prove to him that she was indeed a woman.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. His voice was soft and smooth but she could see the tension in his jaw.
It didn’t hurt, not in the way she now liked, and so she shook her head.
His nostrils flared. “Would you like it to?”
Her head felt heavy. She let it loll back against the chair, her eyes going half-lidded as she tried to keep them on him. She liked his brand of pain. Might like it even more a little deeper than her skin.
She nodded again.
His smile was as vicious as the rest of him.