Summersmut Mod (summersmutmod) wrote in hp_summersmut, @ 2009-08-27 00:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009, fic |
[FIC] Induction :: Rabastan/Pansy | gift to the community!
Title: Induction
Author:
Recipient: gift to the community!
Pairing: Rabastan/Pansy
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1795
Warnings: Bondage, knife play, questionable consent, mentions of child torture (offscreen, nonexplicit)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: N/A
She is fleeing. Her feet smack the ground, bruised and bleeding; she doesn't know where she's going, but it doesn't matter, she just needs to be away. Hands held blindly before her as she weaves through the trees, she scrapes up against the bark, tangled within the overhanging boughs, and when she sees the narrow gleam of the harvest moon piercing through the black forest she wends her way toward it. She can't see, she doesn't know what she's doing, and it's her only marker, the only sign that there is something on the other side of this hell.
Pansy stumbles and falls hard onto her hands and knees; she scrambles back up, dismissing the sting of the scrapes, and takes off, sparing one glance behind her but of course she can't see them, they're charmed to be undetectable. For a moment her hand grasps for her wand, but it's not there. Of course not; they took it from her, like they want to take everything else. Oh Merlin, she has to move!
As she stifles a fearful moan from rising in her throat, she forces her way through the brambles. She leaves shreds of skin and blood on the thorns – they could use that to track her – but there's no other way, speed is of the essence here. How could she have fucked up so badly? She –
She bursts out into a small clearing and pauses, tilting her head to see the bloated orange moon hanging low in the sky. It doesn't appear to have moved, but she's been running so fast, so long, she's had to have made some progress since Hoffenheim….She looks down at her hands, at her robes, at the crusted blood flaking off the fabric and her skin. The screams of the children still caterwaul in her mind, their moon-like faces contorted before her shaking wand. But that doesn't matter, what matters is that she has to get out of the wood so Draco can find her and help her (protect her, even) – she can't fend them off alone –
But even as she turns to run, suddenly disoriented (which direction had she come from? All the trees look the same to her, black and looming), shapes materialize out of the forest, stepping forward to form a semi-circle around her, trapping her. She spins on her heel and flees behind her, not caring whether it's the right way or not, and crashes into someone in a black hooded robe. He pushes her by the shoulders, hard, and sends her sprawling in the dirt. Pansy scrambles back, trying to get her feet under her, but the man steps forward and kicks her in the abdomen. She hits the ground with a grunt and rolls into a protective fetal position. He kicks her again, harder this time, and she cries out and curls up tighter.
"Little Pansy Parkinson," he says with a sneer, and drops to one knee at her side. All around them, her pursuers have drawn their wands; there's no use fighting back now, she'd be outnumbered even if all of them were Squibs. "I should have known better than to send you on this mission. You've really made quite a mess of things, haven't you? All in the name of advancing your family."
From across the circle, someone snorts and hisses, "It's done enough to ruin our plans. For all we know there's Aurors on our tail already. We should kill it and be done with it."
"Shut up, Selwynn," says the wizard who took down Pansy, his voice dangerously low. "Remember who is in charge here."
Pansy twists her head; she can see the gleam of the wizard's eyes under his hood, and a shock of bright red hair: Rabastan. Maybe she can – well, probably not, but he's always had a fondness for her. Anything is worth a try at this point.
"Rabastan," she whispers, "please – "
He places the tip of his wand to her temple and says coolly, "Crucio."
The pain eclipses her plan, the memory of her failure, the fear beating in her chest, everything; it surges over her and every muscle in her body clenches; her scream is snared in her throat and all she can do is writhe, mouth stretched open in silent protest.
He removes the curse after several eternal seconds and she slumps in the dirt, panting. It takes her a moment to regain coherency, but when she does, she pleads, "Rabastan, I am so sorry, I – I can try again, I'll do better, just please – "
"Normally I'd kill you," he muses, and murmurs another spell. Pansy's body twists uncomfortably and ropes spring into existence, wrapping around her wrists, torso, and legs; her arms are trapped at her side, her legs tied together with elaborate knots. She's crying, just a little, water leaking from the corners of her eyes, which are limpid with fear.
"But," Rabastan continues, tapping his wand against his chin pensively, "you are, after all, just a stupid little girl, and it was my fault you spoiled that ritual. Girls like you are not cut out for murder, especially of children." He sees her slight flinch and chuckles. "So that's it. Couldn't quite manage to kill the little bastards? What, didn't want their dirty blood on your hands?"
"They're kids," she whispers, turning her face to the dirt. "Just little kids."
"I don't want your excuses," he says sharply, and jerks his wand. A rope winds around her throat and tightens until she's gagging for air, and she flops like a fish, her restraints preventing her from flailing like she wants to. "I want to know if you're loyal to our cause."
Yes, she mouths, yes, yes, yes, oh Merlin please don't kill me – and then the rope slackens and she takes huge swallows of air, coughing in between in inhalation. He's watching her – staring at her bound body, at the fabric pulled tight over her curves by her binds. He's always liked me, she thinks, and once the thought flies into her mind it's so absurdly obvious she should have known sooner. His wife's dead, after all, and seduction has always been a skill of hers, even when she doesn't have the upper hand. Especially then.
"I am loyal," she gasps, and throws back her head as if in panic, baring the smooth silhouette of her neck, tossing her cascade of blonde hair back into a sharp contrast with the black dirt. "I have always been loyal to the Dark Lord, and I always will be. It's just – I couldn't kill children. I am a woman, after all, it's not in my nature."
"You are a woman, certainly," murmurs Rabastan. "And it's understandable. Women are weak. But that does not release you from punishment."
"Of course," she whispers, and arches her back ever so slightly. "I deserve it."
He stares at her for a moment, and she wonders if she's pushed her act too far; then he leans closer to her, and demands quietly, "Say it."
"I need to be punished," Pansy whispers in reply, her lips nearly brushing his ear. "I need you to punish me."
"And punished you will be," he replies, and flicks his wand. The cords over her stomach crawl and lengthen, wrapping over her breasts and shoulders as the bindings on her legs fall away; the rough rope rubs against her nipples and she shivers reflexively. (Might as well enjoy it, the naughty part of her murmurs, and she has to stifle a giggle.) The fear beating through her veins has simply turned into adrenaline; she's walking a thin line, now, and if she slips up…well. The thrill of uncertainty is a part of the fun.
The cold press of an edge against her thigh makes her body tense; Pansy cranes her head to look, but she can't see more than Rabastan's dark eyes, gazing at her with twisted amusement.
"Curious, Pansy?" he asks, and his hand twitches; a blossom of pain unfolds on her flesh, and she can feel the light trickle of blood along her thigh. The beat of her heart speeds up, and she strains against the ropes. It's what he wants, and he smirks and runs his hands up her inner thighs and hitches her robe up around her waist, cradling the smooth curves of her arse, spreading her open to him; he drags the point of the knife so, so lightly through the dark curls at the juncture of her legs, and barely, just barely touches it to her clit; blood is pulsing in Pansy's ears and she whimpers, more afraid than she'd expected to be. Her fists clench and unclench uselessly; she lolls her head back and sees the others, dark hoods turned toward the spectacle in the center of the circle. She shuts her eyes.
Rabastan flips her over, and she thuds onto her stomach, crying out in surprise; he grasps her hips and pulls her onto her knees, rubbing her face in the dirt – she can't support herself, not with her hands tied like this – and thrusts into her. She arches back against him, and loses herself in the rhythm. He's still got the knife in his hand; it cuts into her hip, where he's grabbed her carelessly.
Almost done, she tells herself when she can feel his pace wavering. Almost done, then you're done, then –
Rabastan comes with a grunt, spilling himself inside her, and pushes her back onto her side as he stands, adjusting himself. Pansy lays there quietly; her plan's worked. She's free – for now, at least, but that's good enough for her.
"Rabastan?" she asks, a little uneasily, as he gestures at the other Death Eaters surrounding them. He shows no signs of unbinding her. "Can you – let me go now?"
"Now, why would I do that?" She makes no response, but perhaps the widening of her eyes alerts him. He drops to one knee beside her, grabs her by the chin, and forces her to look at him. "Do you think we're finished here? Do you think this was your punishment?"
Pansy has miscalculated badly. She strains to get away, tossing her head like a frightened filly. She wishes Draco were here. Rabastan snorts and stands.
"We're not even close to finished," he says with a sneer, and levitates her with a quick charm. Pansy stares up at the moon in the dark sky and trembles.