Title: Nothing Hurts Like You Do
Author: tryslora
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: heterosexuals, sadism, erotic asphyxiation
Other Warnings: roleplay dub/non-con, bondage
Word Count: 1,743
Summary/Description: He waits for her, hiding in the bedroom. Darkness hides him, and when she comes in, unaware, he will have her all to himself.
Author's Notes: I planned on romantically sexy and once again seem to have taken a brief left turn and wandered off into something else. I thank the mods for the wonderful prompts this month. As always, I don't own the world or characters of Harry Potter, but I do love to play with them (and definitely do things the author never intended!).



Draco waits, hiding in the bedroom.

He can hear her moving around in the house; a simple spell amplifies the sound of her movements, her conversations with the children as she reads to them and tucks them in. The standard evening repetition: Miles can’t sleep until she has told him she loves him three times, and Cassiopeia needs her stuffed kneazle before the lights go out.

It is only when she is done that he tenses, moves to the door. The shadows are deep where he waits. She pushes it open, casts a tired lumos, and frowns when the light barely reaches beyond her wand.

A spell lashes out, twisting around her wrists, binding them together and pulling them to the bed. She stumbles forward, knees knocking against the mattress as it pulls her tight. The spell binds her wrists to the headboard, forcing her face down on the mattress, her wand left where it fell upon the floor.

“I do hope you’re not too tired,” he murmurs, hand trailing down her back. “I have plans for tonight, for you and I. Grand plans.” He tucks a gag in her mouth, making it impossible for her to answer. Another spell strips her body, leaving it naked and splayed upon the bed. He hitches her hips up, forcing her lie with her bottom in the air and head down, knees slightly spread for stability. Her skin is soft and white in the moonlight, perfect and unblemished.

It won’t be that way for long.

He touches her hip and feels her flinch. “Oh, my dear, how beautiful you are when you are afraid,” he whispers. “How I wish I could see your eyes, but that would mean letting you see me, and we can’t have that, can we?”

He moves quickly, hand snaking out to swat her flank, leaving a deep red print against her skin. Her cry is swallowed by the gag, her body swaying under the imprint. Draco loves that reaction, that fear and pain, and the way she shivers as she waits to see if it will happen again.

He wants to draw this out, to paint in tiny scratches and welts all over her body. To create a mosaic of injuries she will remember in the morning, that she will feel while going about her business the next day.

He loves the idea of her sitting in her office in the Ministry, bum burning from the impact of his hand and a switch. He loves the idea of her falling into that memory over and over again as the day goes on.

Draco holds out one hand and his switch flies into it. The motion continues as his hand falls, the tip of the switch striking across both cheeks. The welt flames up, bright and thick, and his fingers drift over to taste the heat of it. Gently raised, warm… it is perfect. He lets the switch fall again and listens for her gasp, for the small movement of her body against the bindings. He loves the way she twists as if she could escape from the pain, but he will not give her quarter. Not now, not when he has such a beautiful canvas to leave his mark upon.

He paints stripes across her back, criss-crossing from shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade, weaving them into a pattern. Her breath shudders, growing short, and he strikes again, wanting to force that cry around the gag. When she only whimpers, he stops and reaches out with his other hand, settling at the nape of her neck.

Fingernails, digging in and moving crossways down her spine and cutting through each mark. Tiny, thin trails of red and at the end she cries out, the sound muffled.

It’s perfect.

She is perfect.

“You love that, don’t you?” He cups her sex, fingers curving between her lips where she is slick. “You love the way I make you hurt. It makes you ache for me. It makes you want me in ways you know you shouldn’t. Oh, my dear, sweet, Hermione. You are such a beautiful good woman. No one knows how you squirm in your bedroom, how you daydream of the man who will destroy you. But I’ve watched you. I’ve watched the way you pinch your nipples until your breasts turn red. I’ve watched you enlarge your favorite dildo until you can barely take it, until the feel of it pushing into you makes you scream. I’ve watched you dig your fingernails into your own skin at the moment of orgasm.”

His voice lowers, barely a whisper before he bites her earlobe sharply. “You like pain, my dear one. So I shall give that to you.”

He drives into her, seating himself deep and pulling her hips back. He pushes her legs together, holding them with his own and making her desperately tight. There is so much friction that he knows it will make her ache, but that’s what he wants. And he is positive that it is what she needs.

Now that he is in her warmth, he wants to take her. He wants to drive into her, hard and deep, and fuck her until she screams. But it won’t be enough, not for her or for him. He needs to make her bleed, to cry out from pain and desperation. He needs to push her to the edge, and to make her wonder if she will survive.

He needs to push himself, to see if he will keep her from falling over or if this time he will let her go.

He loves the heat of her skin, mottled with welts. But it is time to do more.

Fingernails again, hands spread like claws across her back, raking down until she arches like a cat and howls around the gag, pressing back into him. He rewards her for her pain with a hard thrust, going as deep as it is possible to go, then pushing harder again. With every stroke of his nails he gives her another push, holding her thighs tight together.

Her screams are a thing of beauty, and when his hand cups her face, he feels her tears.

They nearly undo him, but still, they are not enough.

He needs to show her exactly how much he loves her. She needs to know how close they walk to the abyss.

His hands slide down until his fingers press against her throat. He feels her swallow, feels the rough rasp of her breath. She whimpers and begs, but the words are unheard past the gag.

It doesn’t matter. She is his to do with as he wishes. And he wishes this.

He threads his fingers together, tightening the circle around her throat. She gasps, and he presses tighter yet as his hips rock into her. There is a brief moment of stillness, then she begins to fight, hips bucking back against him, head twisting. But her hands are held, her body is his. There is nothing she can do; he owns her completely.

He fucks her in earnest now, slaking his hunger in her body as she twists against him. He feels her movements slow, sees her hands clenched tightly where they are bound. There is a moment when he feels her let go, her body nearly slack beneath him.

He moves quickly then, one hand supporting her neck, keeping pressure. His other slides down her body, diving between her curls to roll roughly over her clit. She shakes, shuddering uncontrollably around him.

His hand clenches in the throes of his own orgasm, pouring his seed deep within her.

He lets the magic slip away, releasing from her bindings and gathering her close as he rolls onto his back. She sprawls on top of him, drifting somewhere near consciousness, caught in a haze of pain. His hand strokes down her back lightly and he pulls the blankets up just before the shivers begin.

“Shh… shh…” His hands slide over her back, feeling the marks he has left. His touch skates light across them now, soothing. He will rub cream into them later, ensure that nothing scars. Later, when the shakes are done and he is sure that she is safe back here again with him.

He doesn’t know where it is that she goes, but he knows it isn’t here. While he is rooted so very firmly in the physical, she lets herself escape and find freedom. But the way back is never easy.

He wedges them up to sitting, keeping her curled across his lap and wrapped warm in the blanket. He kisses her lips, touches her lightly. His hands are gentle at her throat, his wand summoned to ease the pain there and make breathing easier. All these hurts can be healed; they are only the body after all.

The shivers fade after a time, and she drags in a low, deep breath, then sighs it out, and he knows she has returned.

“Hello, love,” he murmurs, lips against her cheek as he smiles.

She swats him lightly. “You sodding bastard. I thought you were still in Paris.” Her voice is soft and rough; he loves that he has managed to mark that as well.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he says and she laughs. He loves that sound, and the way her arms slowly come around him, pulling him in as she tilts her head to his shoulder. “Have you missed me?” he asks.

“Every night,” she tells him. “Every night I would come up here, and I would think of you in our bed. But nothing ever makes me hurt like you do.”

It is those words that fill his heart, and that show how well they fit together. No one need know all the details of what lies between them; all they need to know is that it works. She needs what he has buried inside, and he is happy to make her fly.

“I love you,” he tells her as he draws her down to lie beside him. “We’ll heal you properly in the morning.” It has been a long day of work and travel, and now all he wants to do is lie with his wife and find sleep.

“Prick,” she says as she nuzzles close, her mouth against his throat. He cannot hear the words, but feels the shape of them as she tells him that she loves him too.