Chapter Text
“I fucking hate you. You filthy fucking Mudblood.” And she doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but a moan slips out of her mouth and she can hear him bark out a laugh from behind her. Cruel amusement. “Jesus fucking Christ, that turns you on, doesn’t it?” Hermione shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut and wishing he would just shut the fuck up. His voice is a reminder that it’s him whose cock is pounding into her, whose fingers are digging into her waist as he positions her. But she’s lost the brainpower to do anything but steady herself against the desk, her cheek pressed to the wood so hard that she thinks she might get splinters. “I always knew you were a fucking whore. Never thought you’d actually get off on the word though.”
She lets out a strangled gasp, an attempt at telling him to be goddamn quiet, but a failed one. He laughs again, and it’s brutish and awful and yet she feels that twinge of pleasure deep in her gut. “Dirty fucking Mudblood scum. I bet you imagined this every time I called you Mudblood, didn’t you? Wanted my cock, wanted to make me a mudfucker.”
“Shut— up—” she finally groans out, but she doesn’t have the breath to make the words anything above a whisper. He ignores her, and she feels his fingers press even further into the skin of her waist. At the least, he’ll leave bruises. At the most, draw blood. She doesn’t know if she cares.
“Always so desperate to prove you were more than filth. But you’re still the dirt on my fucking shoes, Granger. I want to fucking hit you,” he growls and something jumps in her.
She doesn’t know if she means the words to leave her mouth, but then he pauses for a second, his cock twitches inside of her, and she knows they’ve left her lips and are hanging in the air. “ Do it .” And there’s silence for a heartbeat and she almost wonders what the expression on his face looks like, but she has no time to wonder because then he’s pounding back into her even faster, even harder than before. And then a sudden jolt of pain, so stark and unexpected that she cries out, the sound more a gasp than a scream.
Each slap to her arse is more vicious than the last, as though he’s concentrating on making her hurt. She loses count of how many times his hand collides with her skin, loses count of the echoes of the smacks bouncing off the stone walls. And she hates herself because it feels so fucking good, and even while there are tears falling from her eyes and onto the desk, she wants more . She wants her skin to break beneath the brutal touch of his palm, wants to be covered in bruises so mottled and dark that she has to take potions to relieve the pain, wants to soak his hand in her dirty blood.
“Is that all— you’ve — got?” she hammers out in between gasping breaths. “Fucking— coward. Piece of —shit, failed— fucking— agh— Death Eater. Couldn’t— even do one— easy lit—little task.” And she wonders if he might kill her. Wonders if she’d stop him if he tried. “Where’s th—that Mal—” and her words are broken off by a sudden tug at her hair, though she doesn’t know what she even intended to say.
He hauls her towards him, her curls fisted in his hand, dragging her with so much force that she can feel strands tearing from her scalp. And what else does she do, but moan? She’s arched against him, her neck craned upwards so that she’s staring up at the ceiling as he continues to ruthlessly pound into her, pleasure and pain melding into one synchronous feeling that radiates through her body on a loop. “You fucking bitch. I should just—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, releasing his grip on her hair. Before she can collapse against the desk, his hand finds a new resting place, wrapped around her neck. Her throat is restricted as his fingers squeeze the column, air barely finding any room to crawl through. But even through the little space, she laughs. He squeezes harder, pressing her body to his with the force of it. “Kill me,” she wheezes, filling in the words that he didn’t say.
And just like that, all the air is gone. A grunt heaves from his mouth as she feels him shudder against her, his sweating chest pressed to her back, and he comes inside her. Hot liquid spurting into her as he lets out strangled groans directly into her ear, the low sound vibrating against her skin. She’s grateful for his restriction of her vocal cords to hold back the scream emanating from somewhere deep within as the thought of him getting off on killing her triggers her own orgasm. She spasms, limbs shaking both from the climax and the lack of oxygen. Every nerve on her body is shot— she can’t tell if she’s feeling everything or nothing, or perhaps both at once. It’s the most intense thing she’s ever felt but as she wonders for a word to describe it, her mind has gone totally and completely blank. Nothing exists except for the rolling waves of the orgasm, the falling and falling and falling from the cliff he’s brought her to.
He finally releases her throat from his grasp and she collapses against the desk, quivering and coughing. He pulls out of her, and without his weight to hold her up, her knees buckle, sending her crashing down to the hard floor. He doesn’t try to catch her, doesn’t make to help her or lift her at all. She sits in a crumpled heap on the ground, her body weightless and thoroughly abused.
He doesn’t even say anything before he leaves. Even as she finds herself leaning and laying her back against the cool floor, eyes closed and still struggling to breathe, he doesn’t check to see that she’s alright. And she hates him for it. Hates him because he has just become the third person to ever know her in this way, has become the only person other than her who knows these deep, dark secrets about what makes her tick, what makes her come. Hates that it’s him but knows it could be nobody else.
She falls asleep there, in her spot on the floor, still naked and lacking any energy to move. When she wakes, every muscle in her body sore and aching, she’s staring up to grey eyes with nothing more than hatred swimming in them. She squints up at him, unsure of how much time has passed and if maybe he has killed her and she’s entered hell now.
“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, his tone disgusted as he looks down at her. She hasn’t seen the mess he’d made of her skin yet, but from the way she feels, she imagines those bruises she wanted to be covered in have turned her a shade of violet and navy. She swallows but winces at the movement, and the feeling of his warm hand around her throat comes back in a blur. And as much as she hates him, she finds that she hates herself more for the arousal that rushes to her center. “Did you fucking sleep here?” he asks, and she closes her eyes as the toe of his boot prods her arm when she doesn’t reply. “Down on the dirty floor where you fucking belong.”
She ignores the heat the words send through her nerves. “Fuck you.” The words are barely there, her voice still recovering from his strangulation.
She can hear his smirk without needing to see it. “Ah, but you already did.” And she can hear him start to undress, can feel his hands at her knees, can feel him prying apart her legs. She hates herself because she lets him, hates that she doesn’t even give a thought towards resisting. Hates that she wants him. His cock plunges into her with no hesitation, and a laugh escapes his mouth again, just like before. “Already fucking wet.”
His hands are positioned around her head, his face hovering above her, and when she opens her eyes, she’s staring into silver pools of arousal and revulsion. “Already fucking hard,” she retorts, and his pace quickens in anger. Punishing and sadistic, considering the recovery her body is still undergoing from his last abuse.
He lowers his face to hers but instead of kissing her, he takes her bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough to make her gasp. He bites at her nose, her jaw, her neck. Anywhere he can find an unmarred stretch of skin, he ruins her. Over and over again, returning to the same spots when he runs out of new ones, sinking his teeth into her flesh even harder, and there are tears falling down her cheeks from the pain, but still, she doesn’t stop him. Just lets out groans that she’s ashamed of herself for. “I hate you,” she says out loud, reaffirming the fact even while his cock is inside her and her bare breasts are pressed to his chest while he focuses on attacking her collarbones.
He spits down suddenly, splattering her face, and then does it again when she licks it off her lips. “I hate you,” he growls too. But he doesn’t have to say it because she can tell from the way that he leaves marks on her breasts, her chest, her shoulders, her arms, even her fucking cheeks. His saliva is all over her, his hatred present like a perfume.
When he comes with a series of grunts, he doesn’t bother to finish her off and she glares as he collects his clothes and leaves again. Thinks about how next time, if one might even exist, she will scratch her nails along his skin until he bleeds. How she’ll shove him off her before he can come just to piss him off. Giggles to herself at the thought.